The King Of Winters
by King of Kings456
Summary: 'The Strength of the Wolf maybe the pack, but the lone wolf is certainly the baddest one. And the Dragons who made him one will feel the wrath of the Lone Wolf.' The Rebellion never happened and Rhaegar Targaryen rules the Seven Kingdoms with his right, setting aside his father. But what he didn't took into the account was the one big mistake he'd done in the past.
1. Chapter 1

_**The Lone Wolf**_

The sound of music and the smell of foods surrounded the little boy. The servants and the maids of the great castle were running about the Great Hall, pitchers of wine and trays of foods in their hands. The little boy was seated in the raised table overlooking the Hall of Gods, the Great Hall of the great castle Starfall located in the Red mountains of Dorne beside the river Torentine. He could see everything from his high place where he was seated. The men for whom the feast was thrown were absolutely enjoying it, while the household of Starfall seemed to put all their efforts in pleasing them, because it wasn't a feast thrown for some noble guest, the feast was set up for the King of the Seven Kingdoms, Rhaegar Targaryen the first of his name himself. The boy looked over to the King to whom the feast was put up for. Rhaegar Targaryen was every bit of the king he was. From his long silver-gold hair and his purple eyes to the way he was clad in the clothes of red and black, the colors of his house everything about him screamed of the Valyrian Dragonlords of the old. They even said that his crown was the same one that Aegon the Conqueror had worn. Beside him was a rather pretty woman dressed in clothes of the same red and black of the King. She wasn't a woman of a great beauty but had a plain face and common type of beauty. Though she possessed a certain aura about the way she held herself which seemed to attract almost everyone. Lyanna Targaryen formerly Stark seemed no more than a common maid in Starfall near her husband but she never let that get to her. Her crown which looked a twin to the one her husband was wearing seemed to increase her grace and the way she worn it proudly only added to the fact.

The little boy turned his head to look at his father to see how happy he was to see his sister again. Unfortunately his father was not happy about it, no more than he did with the feast. His face was grim and stern as ever and he ignored his sister at every turn. At the age of five he never knew why his father hated his sister and her family so much. But he'd heard everyone in Winterfell talking about the hatred Lord Eddard Stark had for the Targaryens. They always said that 'Though Lord Eddard never shows it openly, he never forgot his father and brother's murders at the hands of the Mad King with his brother's wife.' 'The North Remembers' his father always told him but he never knew what he meant by that.

The little boy was looking at a knight from the crownlands who was tussling with a servant girl pulling her onto his lap, when a hand brought a sugar crusted cake with almond crumbs sprinkled over it to his mouth. He remembered that he was late and took a big bite to even it up, never mind that almond cakes were his favourite. He turned back to look at his mother smiling and tried to return the smile while chewing the cake. Bits of the cake appeared at the corner of his mouth and his mother brushed them off clean with her thumb.

"Do you like it?" his mother asked while holding the cake towards him for another bite. The little boy nestled further in her lap and took another bite nodding. His mother smiled at him and held him close to her while feeding him from her hands. That is not a proper way given his status as a lord but what is status compared to mother's love and it was his routine to sit in her lap and eating from her hands. With another bite the cake was done and the little boy looked up at his mother with puppy eyes and pouty lips. His mother looked down at him with her laughing purple eyes and a sweet smile which seemed to lit up the hall despite the brightness of the candles.

"Last one," said Ashara Dayne Stark as she took another cake from the high table. The little boy immediately took a bite as soon as his mother brought the cake near his mouth. His mother chuckled at his hurriedness. "Too much of sweet can rot your teeth Andrew," his mother said to him. That is what his father tells him all the time and he'd tell him to stop at two. But Andrew using his mother would manage to get at least five. And because of the feast his father seemed to let him to his ways.

Andrew cannot ask for more loving parents. Their love was so strong and indestructible. Most days he'd sleep in their bed, hearing to their stories, playing with his father and listening to his mother's songs. Though he had a good strong relationship with his father, his bond with his mother was unwavering and as close as it could be. Ashara Dayne, the most beautiful woman in the world was his mother and even that fact of Ashara Dayne's son made him popular in the Seven Kingdoms as well. To the world Ashara Dayne was the most beautiful woman but to him Ashara Dayne was a sweet and kind mother who always sides with him even if he causes some mischief that would earn father's shouts.

"So I see little Andrew is enjoying his sweets," a familiar voice said from the side and Andrew turned his head to see his uncle Arthur, tall and regal in his white plate armor and white cloak smiling at him.

"I do," Andrew replied moving from his mother's hands to his uncle. His uncle took him in his hands effortlessly and tossed him in the air before catching him again. Andrew bursted into laughter at that as he loves it when his uncle does that all the time.

"I could see that," his uncle told him as he carried him to his mother.

His mother stood up from her seat and greeted her older brother. Uncle Arthur held him firmly in his arms as he bowed to kiss his mother on the cheeks.

"Ash," uncle Arthur called his mother, the same way his father used to call her. "How long has it been?"

"Almost two years," his mother looked up at uncle Arthur with a smile and then turned to him in his hands "And you shouldn't throw him up anymore you know he is not so small."

"I am not too old to catch a five year old little sister and there is no way I'm dropping my nephew," uncle Arthur made a face at him making him smile. He returned him to his mother and took a seat near mother after she sat down.

"I could see that Ned is not enjoying the feast," his uncle told his mother and Andrew turned to look his father. His father looked the way he was right from the start but when he saw Andrew he gave a smile.

"He hates feasts," his mother told looking at father. Uncle Arthur looked at father and then gave a nod which was then returned by father. They both were not the best of friends like father and Lord Robert, but they certainly respected each other and because of the love they both held for mother they managed to talk to each other.

Then their talk turned boring to Andrew as they talked about the Seven Kingdoms and other things which never interested him.

Andrew was playing with his mother's gown when the music stopped suddenly. King Rhaegar stood up from his high seat of the carved white marble throne and the hall grew silent. "I thank Lord Dayne for receiving us into his castle and hosting us grandly." He Iooked to his uncle Aaron and uncle Aaron bowed his head in acceptance. "I thank Lord Stark and his family for joining with us in this wonderful feast." The king looked to where they were seated and gave out a smile. His mother tightened her grip on him while his father ignored the king. "So now that these two families have been so kind and good to us I suppose it is right for me to kindly return the courtesy to them."

As he finished that the great oaken doors of the Hall of Gods opened and armed men dressed in the Targaryen livery made their way inside in two long rows. They were armed with spears and swords. Andrew looked up at his mother's face as he couldn't understand what was going on. His mother's face had grown taut and the sweet smile which adorned her face always had vanished. Only she held him closer to her.

"Ash, take Andrew and leave," uncle Arthur said to mother. "You remember the way right?"

Andrew looked to his uncle Arthur. But he never took his eyes off his sister. Andrew turned back to his mother, fear clutching hard to his heart. His mother turned to see father. Father gave a silent nod at her with a sad smile. Andrew didn't know what was happening. He was afraid and found himself clutching tighter to his mother.

Without a second to spare the madness sprung up. He could hear the thrums of arrows. Uncle Arthur turned the table to provide a cover and father pulled mother down to cover. Andrew could hear the clashes of steel now and the screams of men and the wails of women. His mother held him to her chest that he could see nothing.

"Ashara, go," he heard his uncle shout at mother.

"You should leave Ash," his father told his mother. "I love you." Andrew could hear the soft sound of their kiss. He could feel his father's hand on his head but he couldn't bear to look away from his mother now.

His mother stood up clutching him tightly to her body, her arms cradling him with a certain strength in them. She moved to the adjacent door in Starfall's great hall. Andrew turned his head to see what was happening. A Targaryen soldier rushed towards his mother shouting and raising his sword but only to be stopped by uncle Arthur's sword. Uncle Arthur's white sword was red covered in the man's blood so did his white cloak and armor. He took the dead man's sword and tossed it to father. Father caught the sword and both of them gave one last look at him and his mother before moving to fight the other men. Andrew looked to the King whose words started the whole fight. The King was seated in the high marble throne of Starfall with a wine cup in his hands, enjoying the deaths and screams of men as much as his wife, Andrew's aunt did.

His mother moved fast, faster than he'd ever seen her, clutching him tighter, harder that they were one. Andrew could feel tears clouding his eyes after looking at all those mess and gore. He buried his face in his mother's shoulder and held onto her tightly.

He could see nothing but dark and the smell of lavender which his mother loved invaded his nose strongly. He looked up from her but again he could only see the darkness and was afraid even more. He tightened his grip on his mother to make sure she was with him, that he was not alone.

"It's alright baby. Mama's here," his mother hugged him closer.

Andrew was glad that his mother was still with him. The darkness around him frightened him no more because he was with his mother and his mother would never let anyone hurt him. He looked around but could see nothing but the dark. The hands around his body and the pleasant smell of lavender gave him a certain type of courage, a courage that all boys feel when they're with their mothers. He never knew these ways because Starfall was not his home. But it was his mother's home and she has told many wonderful stories of her childhood in Starfall. Andrew always loved those stories no matter how many times he'd heard them before.

Soon enough his mother brought him to the light. Moonlight shone on them in a silver sheen. The night was brighter than any other night. Andrew looked up to the stars. On pleasant nights he used to sit with his mother looking at the stars, his mother would tell him all about the constellations and the important stars in them. Tonight was not a night for that, Andrew knew that for sure though he was only five, a little boy who couldn't understand why all of this was happening.

Nearby he could hear the flow of the river. Torentine, he knew the name. His mother took him towards the river. And shortly he could see the river flowing steadily. The moonlight reflected on the water and it was so beautiful to look at it. There was a small boat rocking in the smooth flow of the river. His mother placed him onto the boat and began to untie it while looking back to see if anyone had followed them.

Andrew could see torches far out in the dark and he knew that is what his mother was checking for. He turned to his mother and her calm beautiful face was nervous. She unwinded the ties of the boat hastily. When the ties of the boat were freed the Torentine pulled the small boat through its current. Andrew knew what his mother was doing and he didn't wanted to leave his mother. He made to climb out of the boat but his mother rushed towards him.

His mother hugged him tightly and pressed kisses to the top of his head while smoothing his hair fondly like the same way she used to do when he would wake up in the nights from nightterrors. "Shhh... It's okay sweetling. Mama loves you. Papa loves you." She brushed his tears off his face with her thumb and pressed kisses all over his face. His mother pressed her forehead to his. "I love you. No matter what I'll always love you."

Andrew could hear the distant hooves of the horses now. His mother looked straight into his eyes. Violet eyes piercing into his dark grey ones. "Remember who you're Andrew. You're Andrew Stark, hailed from the line of Gods and Kings. Whatever you do remember that," his mother told him. Her laughing violet eyes were filled with tears. He could hear the hooves of the horses and the chatters of the men now.

Ashara Dayne pressed one last kiss on her son's forehead. "I love you," she said it again like if that would let her shower all her love upon him. Tears streamed from her haunting violet eyes but Andrew could see the joy in them. There was no fear or nervousness in there now, only happiness and satisfaction of doing something great.

The current of the Torentine pulled Andrew away from his mother. He never took his eyes off her. She was standing right there where he left her. Her lavender gown was drenched to her knees and her beautiful dark hair was wild in the night air. She was crying but there was happiness in her face not sorrow. She seemed to glow in the starlight like uncle Arthur's sword does. And she was looking at him.

Suddenly the shouts of men and the hooves of horses were very near that Andrew could hear some words. His mother gave one last look at him and the sweet smile of hers before cloaking herself in a rag she took from the boat and heading in the opposite side of him, towards the dense forests surrounding Starfall.

Andrew looked at his mother and then turned towards the men who were shouting and chasing. He couldn't see their faces but could hear their voices and shouts barely as he was moving away from them.

"There is she, in the woods," the man who was leading them said. "The first one to catch her will get a chance to taste her. Not even the noblest of the men in Westeros would get a chance to fuck the most beautiful woman in the world," he turned his head to look at his men and also that Andrew could see his face. Silver hair glowed in the moonlight and the red three headed dragon in his armor seemed alive in the moonlight. He was in resemblance to Rhaegar Targaryen but his hair was not so long and his voice was gruff rather than the melancholic one of the king's.

As Viserys Targaryen said that, the men chased after his mother at once as if a hungry beast was chasing them. And Viserys Targaryen followed them with a mad laugh.

Dark grey eyes opened as suddenly as the horses chased after the woman, staring into the wooden ceiling. He was sweating heavily despite the cold temperature of Braavos because of the dream which has troubled him for the last eleven years. He got up from his bed and moved to the basin of water kept beside the window of his little room on top of the inn. He opened the window and the morning light rushed through it blinding him instantly. When his eyes adjusted to the light he took water in his cupped hands and sprayed it on his face. The water was cool and so was Braavos, but he had experienced colder climates than this. He bend over the basin to clean his face further. His reflection was perfect in the clear water in the basin.

He looked nothing like the five year old boy he saw in the dream. Andrew Stark, firstborn son of Lord Eddard Stark and Lady Ashara Dayne was just like the little boy in the dreams, vanished from this world. Here he was Andrew Snow, the bastard born of some unknown northern westerosi lord and a maid in his household. But he knew that soon enough Andrew Stark would return. And then Rhaegar, Lyanna and the entire dragons would pay for the folly they made. After all 'The North Remembers'. Andrew never knew what it meant when his father would say it. But now he knew what it meant and he never forgot the death of his mother, father, uncles and his entire family. The Strength of the wolf may be the pack, but the lone wolf is certainly the baddest one and the Dragons who made him one will feel the wrath of the Lone Wolf.

Andrew took a piece of nice cloth and drenched it in the water and dabbed it on his body. That is the type of bath here in Braavos and the hot ones he used to have in Winterfell were not an option for the bastard he was here. At least he was lucky enough to get water of this amount, most poor people here won't even have enough clean water to drink let alone for a bath. The innkeeper was a kind lady who provided place for him to stay and even water for his bath. But truly it was because of his mentor and old friend, Syrio Forel.

Syrio was the one who took him when he reached abandoned in the Port of Starfall. He took him and raised him, taught him to fight with swords and daggers, taught him to use his senses, taught him to be quick, agile and precise in his moves and every other things he knew. He had been the First sword of the Sea Lord of Braavos and he knew many things including the fighting style of Westeros as well. Andrew managed to learn everything from him but he only excelled in combat to best even Syrio's extent.

Everything he is now was because of Syrio. From his clothes to his shelter all came from Syrio's help. The innkeeper had been Syrio's friend and then became a friend to Andrew through Syrio. Even the pretty sword he has was a gift from Syrio. A unique Valyrian steel longsword that Syrio got from his master years before. Though the sword had blue ripples on the blade rather than the dark of Valyrian steel. Andrew had seen and held his father's sword Ice when he was little(only with his father's help) and the blade of Ice was smoky grey. But this sword had a frozen blue blade and it was colder than other swords as well and so Andrew named it Frost.

But life turned upside down when Syrio died two years before. After that Andrew had to look after his own life with everything he'd learnt from Syrio. Assassin was the best form to earn hefty amount of money since everyone here had someone that wanted to die. And the skills he'd learnt from Syrio made him an elite assasin. He killed for his living. But only on one certain condition. He would kill a man only if he deserves to die. His parents had raised him better than to become a murderer. He only took a mission if the justice was in the side of the petitioner. Other times he used to work alongside Illola, the innkeeper who was his only friend now. Taking care of the business, getting back the owed money, taking care of the brutes and bandits etc...

Once he finished his bath Andrew removed his cotton pants and donned his fresh new clothes. A white cotton tunic shirt tucked into light brown cotton pants and a cream jacket with smooth encircled collar worn over the shirt and a pair of brown colored long boots completed his attire. The jacket was a product of featherlight wool blend and the inner area of the jacket was prudently touched in with a viscose lining so that it provided a skin-friendly soothing appeal. It also had a frontage clasp-up fastening but Andrew decided to leave it open since he'd worn a cotton tunic inside.

Andrew took Frost and slung it along his back and made his way back down to the inn. Illola and her daughters were busy looking after the customers. Illola was looking after the notes while her daughters Ilaena and Sarrera were running around with tankards of black beer and strong ale but the second youngest Ivanna was not there. When Illola saw Andrew she closed up her notes and looked at him with her sharp look. Illola was a middle-aged woman past forty with a strong set of eyes and a pug nose. She had three daughters Ilaena, Ivanna and Sarrera. Illola had been running this inn after her husband died and her daughters helped her. They shared no blood with Andrew but he considered them family and so did they.

Andrew gave a small smile at her and greeted her. "Good morning, Illola," he said walking over to his usual table by the windows.

"Morning, Snow. The usual?" asked Illola.

"Yeah," Andrew said seating himself in the chair. The inn was rather crowded in the morning. And Ilaena and Sarrera needed their mother's help to look after the customers. A new ship must have docked in the harbor thought Andrew.

Illola brought him his breakfast. A big chunk of fresh baked bread, few thin sardines, crisp fried in pepper oil and a tankard of strong beer to wash them down. Andrew knew that something was wrong when Illola took the seat opposite to him despite the fact that she needed to help her daughters.

"Is everything okay?" Andrew asked taking a bite from the fresh baked bread.

Illola leaned forward. "Horano came back," she whispered. "The one who owe us money."

Andrew knew the man. A tall, bald sailor who come here whenever he returns from the sea, only to cause damage to both people and the things. Andrew put a fried sardine into his mouth and washed it down with a drink of the strong ale. "Where is Ivanna?" Andrew asked her. Illola's girls were like a sister to him and Ivanna was the closest to him.

"She..." Illola started when the doors opened and Horano stepped into the inn. From the way he swayed while he was walking said that he was drunk. Two large men followed him with thick arms and strong shoulders.

"Where is the girl?" Horano shouted. "I never got a good fuck and I came back to have one."

Illola stood up from her seat to face Horano. "She is unwell."

"She was nice and well when I beat her early in the morning," Horano said and the men who came with him bursted into laughter.

Andrew finished his beer and looked at Illola pleading Horano to leave. But the man just made his way further into the inn.

"Let it be," Horano announced. "You have two other daughters and that one would do," Horano pointed to Ilaena, the eldest of Illola's daughters and moved towards her.

Andrew stood up and caught his arm stopping him. "Don't," he said. The two men who came with Horano stepped forward.

"Get your hands off me boy. Or else..." Horano never finished as Andrew took the empty tankard and slammed it right in his ear. The two men reached for him. Andrew kicked the shin of one and punched at the nose of the other. Without wasting any time he delivered a hard punch to the temple of the kneeling man and another punch with his left hand to the already broken nose of the second one. Both men dropped to the ground alongside Horano.

The inn had grown silent as the quick fight took place. Andrew looked around and then to Illola. "Get the money he owes and then send him," he swung Frost to his back and made his way out of the inn. The men in the inn were looking at him without even taking their eyes off of him.

Andrew left them gazing and stepped out of the inn. Mornings in Braavos were different from the other Free Cities. Unlike the sunny days of the other Free Cities, the mornings in Braavos were misty and covered with fogs. And through the fogs Andrew Stark made his way to see what the day had for him.

* * *

Author Notes: Hello guys, this is my first fanfic here. So give it a chance and I think you'll like it. Any questions or reviews about the story is always welcomed.

reply for the guest miles: Seriously bro? Andrew is 5 years old when this happened. That is Rickard and Brandon are dead for 5 years. Ned is the Lord of Winterfell.

And how do you say that Targs and the Daynes are allies. The Daynes are bannermen of the Martells other than that there is no true friendship between them. A Dayne had already fought in Aegon's coronation. True a Targ married a Dayne but that is for what how many years. You can't say them as allies. And Frey was Starks's ally too before the red wedding. Ah, Arthur Dayne is a KG. Don't you guys grow tired of it? He is Kingsguard but first and foremost he is Ashara Dayne's brother. So Ashara and her family will always be over Rhaegar for him especially after he shamed Elia and Dorne and tried to cause a bloody rebellion. Seriously, Ned would not have any grudge for Rhaegar and Lyanna? Okay read A GOT chap-30 Ned compares Tywin to Rhaegar if Tywin chose to rise against Robert. "Cersei would fall and the Kingslayer with her and if Tywin rose to save them Robert would smash Tywin just like he'd smashed Rhaegar in the Trident" Now Ned compared Rhaegar with Tywin, so would you say that Ned never hated Tywin as well. And Ned even thinks that Lyanna was wrong in the thing with Rhaegar and admits that her wilfulness brought her an early end. And moreover it was R+L's stupid actions which caused the deaths of Rickard and Brandon. Aerys never pulled them away from Winterfell and then burned them. Brandon went to get his sister back and Rickard went to get his heir back. So the running off ignited the whole thing. You thing that causing a rebellion is so easy. medieval age is not our time buddy without the north how could Jon and Robert hope to win it. That's a suicide for them. Come on even even this should I tell you. Any way I wanted to answer your questions so here it is. Thank you.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Rhaegar Targaryen**_

The sun was high up in the sky and the King of the Seven Kingdoms was unaffected to it. Normal men would have drenched with sweat by now with the layers of clothes the King was wearing. But he was a dragon and dragons were immune to fire and heat. He'd chose to look his best since he was receiving an envoy from the Iron Bank of Braavos to make a new friendship with them in form of business. With the black jerkin sewn from the most delicate of silks and the red threads intertwining, the jerkin could shame even the wealthiest merchants of Essos. The red three headed dragon sewn into the chest seemed very alive, as much as the real dragons his sister had brought alive years before with a help of a strange priestess.

In the last eleven years the King had been meeting with the important members of the Free Cities and the Great Masters to strengthen the ties of Westeros with them. Ocassionaly the relationship between Westeros and the Free Cities had grown to a certain extent that they could expect each others help in a battle. Rhaegar Targaryen was the first King of Westeros to become such an important ally to the Free Cities and he took such pride in it. Truly the plan had been Lord Tywin's. The old lion had hatched the plan when he was his father's hand. He even took some steps to workout the plan but his father destroyed it. And when Rhaegar took the Iron Throne he immediately brought the buried plans alive and now his Kingdom had stronger ties with almost all of the Free Cities. Even the Iron Bank of Braavos were ready to lend a fortune to him and the meeting today was only because of that.

But still the plan was not only for foreign friendships. It provided him with a strange kind of protection and provided him an army if the need arises which he thought it would. He was not a fool. Ever since he ran off with Lyanna, the Seven Kingdoms was unrest. The people who used to love him hated him for such a disgusting act and accused him of Elia and her children's murders, though it was fully father work. Some even said that he was the one who killed Elia and their children so that he could marry his wolf bitch, as they liked to call Lyanna. But the truth was far away from that fact and he had no part in the murders of Elia and his children. But no one knew the real reason for why he'd done all that. The Dragon needs three heads and he had his three heads now, with living dragons.

He knew that most of his own lords were against him like his own cousin Lord Robert Baratheon, Robert's foster father Jon Arryn and Lord Hoster Tully. Both Robert and Jon were against him in the thing with Lords Rickard and Brandon's murders even when it was too the deed of his father. But the massacre of the Starks was the one which truly turned them against him. And Hoster Tully had hated the Targaryens ever since his daughter Catelyn was killed with her husband Brandon by his father. Even the Westerlands were with Robert as well for the sake of his wife Cersei Lannister. Dorne was about to turn against him after the deaths of Elia and their children but Rhaegar wisely calmed them by betrothing his son and heir Aegon to Prince Doran's daughter Arianne Martell, binding the Martells again to him by blood. He'd also promised his sister to Willas Tyrell, Lord Mace's firstborn son as a token of his gratitude for their help in dethroning his father. But that too bound the Tyrells to him. The North were his as the current Lord of Winterfell and the Warden of the North was his second son, Jaeherys Targaryen. That was why he had destroyed House Stark, to give Winterfell to his son as he had a claim for he was the son of Lyanna and there were no other Starks left with Benjen in the Night's Watch. That and also because without House Stark there wouldn't be a rebellion anytime soon. Now the North answered his son even if they didn't liked it. But he knew that soon enough most of his lords would rise up against him with Houses Baratheon, Arryn, Lannister and Tully and so Rhaegar made these strong ties to protect his reign.

Moreover he had the upperhand against them with the help of the Free Cities and the dragons made them invincible. And with the Starks done and buried they would lose a valuable ally. That's why Rhaegar himself orchestrated the plan after plotting it for months with Lyanna. They both knew of Eddard's constant visits with Jon Arryn and Robert which made sure that they were planning to rid them for good. Rhaegar and Lyanna were the ones who made the plan darkly and in complete secrecy and the Starks fell in the trap with the Daynes. They only attended the feast because Lord Aaron was the one who held the feast at Starfall without knowing their true intentions. And Rhaegar personally saw to the deaths of Eddard Stark and his friend Arthur Dayne after the Sword of the Morning chose to fight for his good-brother over his king. He stabbed Arthur through the back and cut down Eddard when he was brought to him bounded. His beautiful wife managed to get away with their only son. But Viserys had caught her in the woods but her son was not with her. And the Lady Ashara Dayne took the location of her son to her grave. Rhaegar had known that boy, a little boy who used to cling to his mother always. Andrew was his name, Andrew Stark. Thinking about the boy was of no use since there is no way a five year old could manage all by himself and no matter what his mother did, the boy would've ended up dead within days.

Rhaegar donned his Conqueror crown and made his way out. Ser Gerold Hightower and Ser Barristan Selmy had taken the place for his guards.

Rhaegar walked forward and the Kingsguard fell in beside him. The walk to the Small Council chambers was rather short and quiet. At times like this Rhaegar used to miss his old friend. Arthur Dayne had been his good friend before he took Lyanna. And the fact that Ashara Dayne married Eddard Stark was the certain thing which caused a crack in their friendship. After that the closeness between them gradually broke apart and went to a certain extent that he himself had to kill his Kingsguard. And Rhaegar was not guilty about it because Arthur Dayne caused treason with the Starks and deserved the death. He chose his sister and her family over his King.

That was the reason these Kingsguard were silent as well. They never like the fact that he killed their sworn brother. But their concern was not a problem for Rhaegar Targaryen. He was the King and a dragon as well. And a dragon takes what he wants and does what he thinks.

They reached the council chambers and he found that his small council members along with Lyanna and the envoy of the Iron Bank waiting for him.

Everyone arose at once when Rhaegar entered the chambers.

"Your Grace," everyone on the council chambers said at once.

Rhaegar looked at them. He'd made some changes from his father's council members.

Lord Jon Conington was his Hand of the King after the pyromancer his father had was killed. Jon was a good friend to Rhaegar and a loyal one at that unlike Arthur Dayne.

Ser Gerold Hightower took his place as the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.

Lord Petyr Baelish sat with his fingers smoothing his pointed beard and that certain smirk of his. Rhaegar never truly trusted the man but he had skills in governing and maintaining the Crown's finances.

Lord Mace Tyrell was given the position as the Master of Laws mostly because of his help and maintaining the relationship.

His brother Viserys was given the post of the Master of Ships to oversee the Royal Navy. And Viserys did a good one at that, strengthening their navy to double the time of their father's including the three massive war galley's Balerion, Vhagar and Meraxes with 400 oars each.

Grand Maester Pylos was sent from the Citadel after Rhaegar found out that Pycelle was too loyal to Lord Tywin for his like and sent Pycelle to serve the Old Lion as he likes.

The only one to stay from his father's council was the Spider Varys for his help in setting aside his father and in knowing the plots of the Starks and the other treasonous lords.

Rhaegar took his seat at the head of the table. Lyanna sat in the chair beside him while his left was occupied by Jon.

The envoy of the Iron Bank was standing to his opposite and Rhaegar knew that the man demanded respect by the way he held himself. He knew that it was necessary because the Braavosi were a certain type of people and the Iron Bank of Braavos was the largest bank in the known world and they were proud of it.

Rhaegar stood up from his chair and his council members and Lyanna did as well. "Welcome Lord Tycho."

Tycho Nestoris was the man's name. He was a tall, stick of a man with long legs. He had a gaunt face with a thin rope of a beard growing from his chin which hangs down to his waist. He had worn expensive robes of a sober dark purple color, trimmed with ermine fur.

"Thank you, King Rhaegar," the man said and took the seat.

Rhaegar gestured and his council took their seats as well. Tycho took out some papers and moved straight away to the matter.

"So King Rhaegar these are the terms we've agreed for," Tycho said and looked to the papers. "The Iron Bank of Braavos wish to begin a new contract with the Seven Kingdoms. As per the contract we would lend you money at any costs or time. There will be no intrest for a period of five years if you failed to repay the money before the time but after the five years the intrest will double with each passing month." Tycho Nestoris gave the papers to him and looked at him smugly.

Rhaegar took the papers and read the terms carefully. The terms of the Iron Bank felt good enough for him. They even gave a period of five years of free intrest but the fact that the money would double with the each passing month troubled. He knew there was no more negotiations, take the offer or leave it were the choices made by the Braavosi. But Rhaegar never wanted to fall in a debt that he couldn't rise from and yet he knew it is essential. The support of the Iron Bank would provide him with all the amount he needed for a sellsword army if the need arises, and to manage the realm without the help of the Lannisters.

The king knew that the full coffers his father left had been emptied by half and he'd raised the taxes twice to fill it but only failed in the process. Another attempt to raise the tax would anger the Kingdom and asking the help of the Proud Lion is never an option.

So the king dipped his writing feather in the black ink and signed his name neatly in the respective place.

Rhaegar moved the signed papers towards the representative of the Iron Bank.

Tycho Nestoris took the papers and checked them once again. Once he finished the Braavosi kept the papers safe and neat.

"It is our honor and pleasure to work with you, Your Grace," the Braavosi said and stood up.

"So am I," Rhaegar said. "And as a token of our good friendship my brother Viserys will escorts you on your way back to Braavos and will act in my stead there."

He looked to Viserys. His brother gave that sick smirk of his father and nodded.

Rhaegar turned back to the representative of the Iron Bank. "Until then the hospitality of Westeros and King's Landing is yours Lord Tycho."

Tycho Nestoris bowed his head and made his way out of the council chambers.

When the representative of the Iron Bank was left Rhaegar looked to his council members. "If that is all my lords then we can carry on our duties."

No one said a word and everyone made their way out of the chambers except for Lyanna.

When they were alone Lyanna moved towards him. Rhaegar took a sip of water from his cup and kept it down.

"So will it work?" She asked him.

"It will," said Rhaegar. "And it should. If things went wrong we'd have the Iron Bank to back us up. And we may not depend upon the help of the Lannisters. We've good friendships with all of the Free Cities and Essos and now with the Iron Bank we could personally raise our own army."

Lyanna looked at him pointedly. "Yes it is necessary. Varys brought some whispers of the talk of war even now in the Stormlands and the Vale."

Rhaegar thought about that. He had known about it and he knew that soon enough they might face a Rebellion. But that's why he'd done all these things. And that's why he'd asked Viserys to escort Tycho Nestoris. So that they might become one of the powerful friends of the Iron Bank.

"What of the north?" asked Rhaegar. "Has Jae had any troubles with them?"

"No," Lyanna shook her head. "I know the north. They might hate us but they will answer only to a Stark. And Jae is half Stark. Whether they like it or not they are stuck with Jaeherys as their lord."

Rhaegar nodded believing that is the truth.

* * *

Author's Notes

So another chapter guys. Say about it in the comments. And don't hesitate to ask your doubts.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Robert Baratheon**_

The sound of waves crashing were well audible to Lord Robert Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End and the former Lord Paramount of the Stormlands. Robert took to spend his evenings in the Drum Tower on the top of Storm's End. The Drum Tower was the tallest tower in Storm's End and Robert could see to the vast portion of the raging Shipbreaker Bay. Even now Robert could remember the day he saw his parents' ship getting wrecked in a storm as he stood here in the same place with his brother Stannis watching them die and he'd never forgot nor forgave Aerys Targaryen for that. He'd thought to kill the bastard himself but his own dragonspawn Rhaegar stole him of that just like he'd stolen his Lyanna.

The dragons only managed to take everything from him. First the Mad King Aerys took his parents from him in a young age, then his son Rhaegar took Lyanna from him. He couldn't even believe the fact that Lyanna could do that no more than Ned did but still she did it and there was no more to say about it. They even took his title as the Lord Paramounts of the Stormlands and gave it to House Connington. And lastly both Rhaegar and Lyanna took his friend who was like a brother, away from him.

Robert could see his grim, stern face and the tight smile even now. Gods knew he missed Ned. He missed their wonderful life and adventures in the Eyrie with Jon. In another life they could've been brothers bound by blood but Rhaegar and Lyanna completely destroyed it and he never forgave them for it. He wanted nothing more than to take his warhammer and cave their chests in when he heard about Ned's family but Jon tied up his hands from doing so. 'This is not the time,' he'd said and when will the time come, Robert hadn't knew that.

Robert wanted to get rid of the dragons from Westeros and sent them back to the ruin from where they'd come ever since he heard of what the Mad King did to Rickard, Brandon and Catelyn Stark. They said that when Lord Rickard demanded a trial by combat, the Mad King chose fire as his champion. And his son Brandon's neck was connected to a myrish strangling device and a longsword was kept just out of his reach. The myrish strangler device connected in Brandon's neck was tied to a rope and the rope was put through a pulley and at the end of the rope was a noose tightened around the neck of his wife, Lady Catelyn Tully. Aerys gave Brandon a choice to either save his father or his wife. When Lord Rickard was set ablaze by the pyromancer, Brandon had tried to reach for the sword to save both his father and wife alike. The harder he tried the harder the rope attached to the device around his neck and the noose around the neck of his wife strangled his wife and her weight in turn strangled him. But it was said that Brandon had tried to reach the sword so bad and with a huge force, which had had Lady Catelyn suspended in the air for about two feet. By the time the fires were done, the melted armor and the ashes and charred bones were the only remains of Lord Rickard. And Brandon had died trying to save his father and wife by ending up strangling himself and his wife to death.

That was when Robert knew what the dragons were made of and what they were capable of doing. He was done with them and wanted Westeros to get rid off them. Rhaegar and Lyanna came soon enough but only after Aerys killed the dragonspawn's wife and children. They came and acted as though nothing were their wrong while their actions alone caused all those deaths.

Robert had wanted to kill both of them then and there and end up the Targaryen line for good. But both Ned and Jon advised him to remain calm. But Robert knew that was for good because they were vulnerable at that time. He had his brothers to continue his line but both Jon and Ned were the last ones of their line with Jon having only Elbert as his heir while Ned had none with Benjen joining the Night's Watch for no reason.

So they had decided to wait for the right time to bring justice for all the troubles the dragons have caused. Jon advised him to marry Cersei while he married Lysa Tully and brought both the Westerlands and the Riverlands to their cause and strengthened their ties. They had agreed to betroth their children and bound their houses together once and for all to take down the dragons.

And soon enough their family grew big with the births of his son Gendry and then Ned's son Andrew months after and Jon's son Robert after him. With male heirs to stabilise their legacy their positions became safe. And when his daughter Argella born the next year it was decided that Argella would marry Ned's son bounding both their houses by blood and when Jon's daughter Alyssa born it was decided that she would become Gendry's wife, again tying all their houses together for one more generation.

That seemed a perfect plan with a strong alliance and they were stronger than they ever were. Until the Dragonspawn was clever enough to find it and murdered Ned's family. Their plan crumbled at once with the deaths of Ned, Ashara and Andrew and once again the dragon managed to outsmart them. Cersei tried for her part asking her father to stop their support to the Crown but Rhaegar was not as stupid as they'd thought him to be.

In time he himself formed his alliance with the other kingdoms and managed to earn the favors of the free cities as well. And moreover his slut of a sister managed to bring back the dragons alive. And they had lost the help of the North as well with the deaths of Ned and his son which resulted in Rhaegar and Lyanna's son becoming the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.

But Robert was not ready to give up. One way or another he would get the justice for Ned and his family's murders. Even if it meant his life he would take Rhaegar's life along with him.

A rumble of a thunder brought him back from his thoughts. The rain started to pour accompanied with raging thunderstorms. The conditions were a common one here in Storm's End where rainstorms and thunderstorms were frequent. But no matter how strong the storms are and how raging the waves are they always scatter against the huge curtain wall of Storm's End. And like the storms and the waves the Targaryens would scatter against them as well.

Robert was looking at the raging sea through the slit when he heard the door creaking open behind him. He turned to see his brothers Stannis and Renly entering through the door. He remembered that he'd called them for the meeting and asked them to take their seats in the table.

After Rhaegar made the Conningtons as the Lords Paramount, Robert couldn't give Stannis and Renly their own castles so they just stayed with him in Storm's End. Which is for good in fact. Stannis made a great knight master and became his right hand in governing the castle and Renly made a good knight with skills in jousting and sword fighting. And they both had been a constant presence in all of the decisions he make.

Master Cressen entered next and the maester had been a constant presence in their life after the deaths of their parents. After the deaths of their parents maester Cressen had raised him and his brothers all by himself. When Robert left for the Eyrie, Maester Cressen put it upon his shoulders to raise both Stannis and Renly. And so Maester Cressen became like a family to them and was one of his most trusted and loyal advisors.

Cersei came at last, dressed all in the fine grandeur clothes of hers. She was a beautiful woman and the harsh conditions of Storm's End did nothing to dim her beauty. She can be cold and be a pain in the arse, but the way she managed and run the castle and the way she loved their children made up for that. Even sometimes Robert chose to ask her opinions in the important plans and decisions. Cersei liked to run the castle and rule it. She was not the kind of woman to be a broodmare who was just needed to give him heirs. And Robert welcomed it. She was everything he'd seen Lyanna to be. Cersei can be adamant, Cersei can be willful and Cersei can dominate. She is as fierce as the lioness she is when it comes to their children that she would never allow anything to be done in their life without her consent. And moreover she's been shunned by the dragons twice, just like Lyanna had shunned him. Robert knew the feeling and he did not wanted to inflict anymore pain upon her. So he just let her have her way and soon enough Cersei ruled Storm's End as much as he did, with her going as far as to make the decisions in their alliances as well.

When they were all seated Maester Cressen took a rolled parchment and gave it to him. Robert got it from the Maester and unrolled it to see the contents of it. When he was done he gave the paper to Cersei next to him and gave some time for her to read it.

"Rhaegar has made a contract with the Iron Bank of Braavos," Robert announced for everyone in the room to hear.

"So he need not depend upon my father anymore," Cersei said placing the parchment on the table with a thud. "He could make his own gold hereafter."

"A relationship with the Iron Bank is a strong one, given the reputation of the bank," Stannis said adding to Cersei's fact. "And he could very well raise his own army of sellswords as well."

Renly nodded approving. Robert knew how all of them were right. A contract with the Iron Bank would provide Rhaegar with all the necessary things he needs to stabilise the Kingdom as well as to raise his own army. The dragon was not as foolish as his father, Robert thought. Even after making the necessary alliances within Westeros, Rhaegar never stayed idle and instead went out of it to make even more friendships to make sure that he was safe and well even if the whole Kingdom rises up against him.

"And that is not all my lord," Maester Cressen said taking another sealed letter. "There's been a letter from Lord Arryn." Maester Cressen gave the letter of his foster father in his hand.

Robert took the letter and skimmed it briefly before breaking the silver colored moon and the falcon seal of House Arryn. His foster father's letters were as neat as they had been before, when he'd seen them in the Eyrie. Robert placed the letter of his foster father on the table and everyone in the room were eagerly waiting to learn what was in the letter.

"Jon thinks the marriage of Rhaegar's son and heir would happen soon," Robert told them. "So he says that we should hurry on the marriages of our children as well to show our strength and ties."

Cersei took the letter at once and her eyes began to run over Jon's lines. When she was done she looked at him with wide emerald eyes. "It is true. His son is of age and so is Arianne Martell. And he will definitely rush it up to show his power and threaten us."

"If Rhaegar does that," Renly voiced his words for the first time. "Then we should do it as well to protect ourselves. We need to be together in order to protect ourselves and these marriages are necessary."

Robert could see the truth of their words. Rhaegar has all he needs and he is in the perfect position possible. There is no need for him to rush the marriages as though he is afraid of losing them if he was late. This is just about the show of his strength against them. And his threat of showing that his power is greater than that of them and that if they chose to rebel against him they would soon end up like the Starks. This would also show that he still has support in Westeros despite what he'd done in the past.

"Well, Gendry and Alyssa are of the age," Robert said "and it has been already decided that they would marry which would bind both the Arryns and the Tullys with us."

"When shall they marry?" Cersei asked. "And where? If the word of the marriage was known to Rhaegar, he would definitely see it as a threat and name us as traitors to take on us unawares."

"Yes and we're well away from our allies," Stannis added. "If Rhaegar needs so he could cut us off from our support. And Connington has some of the Lords at his side as well. So we'd likely have a opposition from within our lands as well."

"My lord, Lord Stannis is true," Maester Cressen said. "We could very well come across a civil war if we let the Conningtons unchecked. And a civil war with an open war upon us would be fatal."

Robert knew that the Conningtons would be a threat as well. But no matter the title most of the Stormlords were loyal to him and not to the Conningtons. But if he left the Conningtons behind him there is a good chance of him getting in between two armies. And that would be fatal even if they were engaged by a small army in both sides. So taking the Conningtons from the action is the first step. And as Cersei said, if he continued with the marriage of his son with the Conningtons to look at there is a good chance of Rhaegar knowing about it at once.

Going to the Eyrie with his family will attract unwanted attention as well. Suddenly he got an idea to make it as simple and secure as possible.

"We will agree upon a date and meet with the Arryns in Riverrun," Robert told them. "The Arryns can get there without making a lot of doubts and Riverrun is well within the domains of our strength." He looked at all of them and continued. "If Rhaegar moved for Storm's End, then our combined forces of the Stormlands, the Vale, the Riverlands and the Westerlands would throw them back while Renly or Stannis would eliminate the Conningtons. This way it would not be on our heads that we were the ones to disrupt the peace and we could say that we were only protecting ourselves."

Everyone seemed to approve the plan. And Robert believed that it would work. All he needed to do is to lure Rhaegar into the bait so that he could trap him from all sides. Once it is done, no matter whatever alliances he'd made, everything would be just as useless as nipples in a breastplate without a leader.

"What about Argella?" Renly blurted out suddenly.

Robert looked to Cersei and she looked back at him. Argella was promised to Andrew Stark and Robert had known that his daughter would be well and good with Ned's son. But with Andrew Stark gone he was completely confused about the future of his daughter.

He might give her to Jon's son but that would only double up the already made fact. And it would do no good to any of them. Now all he could think about his daughter is to know what is in her mind and then making a decision that would do good to all of them.

"We don't want to rush with Argella now," Cersei said before he could voice his words. "Lets get done Gendry's marriage first and then we could think about Argella."

Everyone nodded at that. Robert could feel the motherly concern in Cersei's voice and was glad that she came up with a good answer.

The plans were made and there was no going back. But Robert was never the one to step back. All he could do now was to believe that their plan would work and then soon enough they could bring justice for all the troubles the dragons have caused.

* * *

Author Notes:

As for Robert/Cersei relationship both had their ways before their marriage, Robert with Mya's mother and other women and Cersei with Jaime. But after Jaime chooses KG over Cersei she comes to hate him. And Robert is well and in top shape because he never pined for Lyanna after knowing that she ran off with Rhaegar and never drowns his sorrow in wine. Another fact I used for their relationship is that in the show Cersei comes to Robert with love but he breaks her heart by saying Lyanna's name. But that thing never happens here and the fact that Robert's allows her to rule his castle makes Cersei to do her duty to him. That doesn't mean that they love each other, they certainly care and love their children.


	4. Chapter 4

_**Andrew**_

The streets of Braavos were well known to him and Andrew knew each of the ways through the city of Braavos. He knew which was the shortest one, which was the longest one, which was the crowded, which would have less eyes to notice you, which is the busiest and used by the common people and which was used by the wealthiest ones, which bridge would take you where and which walkway you should use in order to take out someone without getting seen by others.

Andrew took notice of everything as he passed through to the Ragman's Harbor. The Ragman's Harbor was poorer and dirtier and noiser than the local Harbor of Braavos, the Purple Harbor. The Ragman's Harbor was crowdier than the Purple Harbor as well. The foreign ships which arrive in Braavos will be docked at the Ragman's Harbor while the locals and the ships of the Iron Bank were shipped in the Purple Harbor. So Ragman's Harbor became a good trade centre for the likes of porters, mummers, rope makers, sailmenders, taverners, brewers, bakers, beggars, and whores. They all made their living around the Ragman's Harbor which only added the noiseness and the dirtiness of the Ragman's Harbor.

The Harbor was seriously active that day with the arrival of two ships from Pentos and Myr. Braavos was economically a greater city and it was the banking centre of the modern world. The Iron Bank of Braavos is the most powerful banking institution in the known world, richer and more powerful than the banks of all the other eight Free Cities combined, and it had a fearsome reputation when collecting debts. When princes or kings default on their debts or if they were foolish enough not to honor their agreements with the Iron Bank, new princes and kings appear on their place with the Iron Bank's support. These new princes and kings then honor the previous debt along with paying back the money the bank loaned them in claiming their new power, lest they suffer the same fate as their predecessors. "The Iron Bank will have its due" is a common saying among Braavosi. The Iron Bank of Braavos had customers from almost all part of the world and it even had extended its roots to his homeland, Westeros.

The streets of Braavos were cobbled with stones and the streets were crowded with all the crew of the docked ships, the whores who tried to catch their eyes in order to earn some coppers for their living. The children ran through wildly, without even watching what is in their opposite. One of the boys running, tripped over the shop of a fisherman and sent all the oysters, clams and the fishes he had to the ground. The fisherman tried to catch the boy but the boy managed to slip away from him and vanished into the crowd, which lead to the mutterings and the shouting of the fisherman.

Andrew couldn't help but smile at that as he himself remembered the mischiefs he'd done back at his home, when he was still with his parents. Throwing snowballs at his father's guards, stealing biscuits and sweets without the knowledge of Gage the Cook. Stealing into the kennels without the knowledge of Farlen to see the newborn puppies of the hounds. All would earn his father's scolds but his mother had been there for him always. Thinking about the past or his dreams would only seem to trouble him so Andrew tried to ignore them. He had a work to do and his thoughts of past would only get in the way from doing it.

Illola had asked him to get the money back from one of the common customers of the Foghouse, their Inn, Ballos Aenen. Aenen was a guard to a high official in the Iron Bank of Braavos and he was a good one at that. He was a good man and used to enjoy his black beer and sea foods whenever he comes to the inn. And he would cause no trouble other than throwing some ribald and bawdy comments. And he was an old friend of Syrio and himself as well. So the job would not be of much trouble, thought Andrew.

He cut through the bridges and took the one which would take him to the northern side of the city to the Purple Harbor, near the Sealord's Palace.

The Purple Harbor was neat and quiet compared to the Ragman's Harbor. The Braavosi vessels were neatly docked and were rocking gently in their respective places. The ships belonged to the Iron Bank were dominated the numbers.

Andrew took the walkway to the Drowned Town, which was inbetween the Purple Harbor and the Outer Harbor where the cavernous mummers playhall, the Gate was located. It was where Ballos spend his free time watching the plays staged by the troupe of Izembaro who was the owner of the playhouse.

Andrew soon reached the Gate as it was located in the edge of the Drowned Town. The owner of the Gate, Izembaro had raised his playhall atop the flooded stone foundations of a burnt warehouse which was there in the place before Izembaro's playhouse.

In Braavos, the Dome and the Blue Lantern enjoyed more fashionable environment but Izembaro had known the secret of luring the customers. With the Gate's location being between the Outer Harbor and the Purple Harbor the troupe would never lack for sailors and whores to fill their pit just like the Foghouse had customers in the Ragman's Harbor.

When Andrew arrived there, the playhouse had been making the preperations to stage a play but he never knew when they would start it for sure. The pits were partially filled with sailors and other people as well and it wasn't hard for him to find Ballos. He was seated in a corner with a horn of spiced mead in his hands. When he saw Andrew he immediately raised his hand to indicate his position to him.

Andrew reached Ballos and took the empty seat near him. Ballos was a strong old man with a sour smell and wine drenched beard which reached his neck. Ballos took a big gulp of the spiced mead from his horn and wiped his lips with the back of his hands.

"Ah, let's just go out," Ballos said in his gruff voice. "They are not going to start it for about some more time." He stood up from his seat and walked out of the playhouse and Andrew followed him out.

When they came out of the playhouse, they went to the bridge connecting the Drowned Town and the Purple Harbor over the small canal which ran underneath. Andrew placed his hands on the side wall of the the bridge and gazed to the canal underneath.

"So still doing the killing for living?" Ballos asked pointing at Frost Andrew had worn at his back.

Andrew looked at him and nodded. "Sometimes," he told him. "And other times I used to work with Illola."

"Aye, aye," Ballos said taking another gulp of his mead. "The money, I have it." He settled his horn of mead in his right hand, securing it and took the money pouch from his worn ragged doublet with his left. "Got to be careful about the thieves," he said and gave the money pouch to him.

Andrew took the money pouch from his hand and secured it in the inner pocket of his brown jacket.

Ballos looked at him for a few minutes and then took a drink of his mead. "You know, you're wasting your skills. With your skills you could easily make a good life by becoming the First Sword of the Sea Lord and staying as the first sword for the rest of your life. I don't think he could find a better fighter than you."

Andrew looked down at the canal flowing underneath the bridge they were standing at and remembered the clean flowing water of the river Torentine he'd seen eleven years before when his mother had saved him from the hands of the Targaryens and when he had ran away from Westeros in fear of the Targaryens, leaving his mother who'd sacrificed herself to save him, his father, his family and his home. And nothing had ever troubled him like that.

Even he dreamed of the night to this day and remembered everything he had seen on that day, right from Rhaegar's laugh to Viserys'. And he wanted nothing more than to tear open their mouths and kill every last of the Targaryens. That's why he'd learnt all these skills, to avenge his parents and family, not to get a good life for him. And he'd already planned to do it so, soon enough when he gets the opportunity.

"I don't have any interest in it," Andrew said brushing off the subject. He was good as Andrew Snow in here, not Andrew Stark.

"I don't know what's with you Snow," Ballos said sighing. "Wasting all those skills for good."

I don't plan to waste them, thought Andrew but he didn't voiced it. "Well what's with you doing in the playhouse when you're supposed to be guarding your Lord?" Andrew asked him trying to change the subject.

Ballos laughed at that. "Well Lord Tycho had left for the Seven Kingdoms and had commanded me to guard his family," said Ballos. "His family was taking rest the whole day, staying in their house. So I left the guards there and came here."

That troubled Andrew. "Why has he gone to Westeros?" He asked at once.

"I don't know for sure," Ballos answered. "But it was something about an agreement between the Seven Kingdoms and the Iron Bank."

Though Andrew didn't knew much about politics, he certainly knew that the friendship with the Iron Bank was a great deal to anyone. With the help of the Iron Bank, Rhaegar's could very well raise his own army of sellswords. But Andrew doesn't need an army to kill him. All he needed to avenge his family was his blade, a right place and a right time. And he was waiting for them.

"Well let me return to the playhouse," Ballos said looking back at the gate. "The play might start soon. No one knows what the fool Izembaro would do and I don't want to miss the start."

Andrew nodded and turned to leave as Ballos turned to leave for the Gate. He took the same way back and the ways were not so crowded as they'd been in the morning.

But the time he reached back to the Foghouse, the fires in the Inn were all died out and Illola was looking at the accounts with a candle to help her see. She looked to the door at once when she heard the door open and relaxed when she saw him enter.

Andrew walked to the table and sat in the chair on the other side of the table opposite to Illola. He took the money pouch he'd got from Ballos and kept it on the table. Illola took the pouch and put it with the others not even counting it knowing how late it was and how tired they both were.

"You must be hungry," Illola said. "Ivanna bring Andrew's food," she asked her daughter to bring his food.

Ivanna came with his food and a tankard of beer. She gave a smile at him as she placed the tray on the table. When he had left the inn in the morning she was resting in her bed and Andrew was glad to see her actively working again. The bruises and the marks in her face from the beating Horano had given her had completed cured now.

"Are you alright?" Andrew asked to Ivanna and the girl nodded. He was happy to see her good and fine because Illola's girls were like sisters to him and they were the only family he'd left. He didn't wanted to lose them too.

Andrew took off Frost and started to eat his fill. He was hungry enough after spending his afternoon without food. When he was done Illola and the girls cleared the table and they made for their rooms to spend the night.

Andrew took Frost in his hands and climbed up the wooden stairs and made his way to his room. He got to his room and closed the door before getting changed for the sleep. He took off his jacket and the cotton shirt he'd worn inside, leaving only the pants on.

He got up onto his bed and thought about the nights he used to sleep in the arms of his mother, hoping that he would dream that rather than his usual one.


	5. Chapter 5

_**Viserys**_

The Sea Dragon was the swiftest ship in the royal Targaryen Fleet. Viserys Targaryen knew his ships. From the huge war galley Balerion to the slender longships designed for speed alone. While the huge war galleys like Balerion, Meraxes and Vhagar were built specially for the battle purposes and to dominate the sea the lighter and swifter vessels were the best ones for travel purposes in order to save time. But the Sea Dragon was a unique type at that. Though it was slender and lighter it had all the luxuries and pleasantries that a 300 oar luxurious cog possessed. That was the reason the Prince had chosen it particularly for this voyage.

Rhaegar had ordered him to escort the representative of the Iron Bank, Tycho Nestoris back to Braavos and appointed him to act in his stead in the Iron Bank. That wouldn't take much of his time the Prince knew. He had to escort the man Tycho back to Braavos to show the good intentions of the Seven Kingdoms and as a token of their new made friendship. And then he had to act in Rhaegar's stead there. And then within days he could sail back to Westeros and that wasn't a big deal for Viserys Targaryen.

The Representative of the Iron Bank was currently taking rest in his cabin in the Sea Dragon but Viserys Targaryen chose to spend his time in the afternoon sun looking the sea. He was the Master of Ships in the court of his brother Rhaegar Targaryen. The sea was calm enough and they had enough and steady winds to push them further.

The wind messed up the Prince's hair. Viserys pushed his silver hair back from his face. The crew of the Sea Dragon were all in their positions doing their work and the guards the Prince had brought from King's Landing were keeping him company. The ships by which Tycho Nestoris had reached Westerns were following them, two slender cogs which belonged to the Iron Bank of Braavos.

The Braavosi fleet were one of the most advanced and the strongest fleet in the entire known world. Viserys had always wanted to strengthen the royal fleet of the Targaryens to the level of the BraavosI Fleet.

"My Prince," one of his guards called for him.

Viserys turned to look at him with a disgusting look upon his face. The men and the crew he had were utter useless and they had to ask his help in almost anything. And the Prince hated that every time. "What is it now?" Viserys asked him in irritation tumbling with his words.

"We are about to reach Braavos soon, My Prince," the guard announced taking a step back, bowing his head.

Viserys nodded his head approving his words and his movements. He always took certain pleasure in making the people to know and stay in their place, right below him where they belonged. He was a Prince and a dragon prince at that and these mere men were well below his status and for his likes. And so he kept his men and the crews of his ships in their place.

The Prince was happy that they would reach the city of Braavos soon enough so that he could finish the job that his brother had told him to do and return to Westeros to have his way. He made a mistake in not bringing the whores with him to warm his bed in the cold nights on the sea. So he had to spend the nights all alone throughout the travel. And the Prince definitely missed a good fuck. Maybe he would get the Black Pearl to warm his bed once he reached Braavos.

When he had been in Westeros, he could bring different women for every single night from the numerous brothels of King's Landing. But it had been a different feeling always to have a noble woman in his bed. And he had been with noble women before, with some of the daughters of the small Lords from Crownlands but he had not wanted any one of them again for another time. But the one he'd wanted truly was the Stark bitch, Ashara Stark, wife of Eddard Stark and sister of Arthur Dayne. Though she was a traitor to the Iron Throne, the Dayne whore had a beauty befits that of a star she was which was matched by no one.

When Rhaegar had organized the massacre of the Starks, the bitch had escaped with her son and Rhaegar had ordered him to bring her back with that boy of hers. And Viserys being the one wanting her had rushed immediately after her. He'd found her soon enough away from her home, but the bitch had managed to get her son away from his hands. But it wasn't a serious thing since there was no way for boy of that age could survive in this world all alone.

Viserys had wanted nothing more than to take her right then and there in the woods in front of all those men who'd followed him, as a dragon would take what he wants and from wherever he wants and he was a dragon. And then after he was finished with her, he had wanted to give her to his men as he'd promised them. But instead he took her to his brother believing that Rhaegar would hand her to him but his brother had other plans for the Falling Star of Westeros. All the beauty wasted in the dark.

Viserys cleared the old thoughts from his mind and looked straight at the Titan of the Braavos which was now in view from their ship. The ship made its way further and as they moved further the Titan grew bigger and bigger and bigger. It seemed to grow constantly and soon enough the Sea Dragon reached the city of Braavos so that the Prince could see the real might of the Titan of Braavos.

The Titan of Braavos was truly a terrifying sight but nothing could terrify the dragon, Viserys knew and he was a dragon. It was a massive stone and bronze fortress which was shaped in the form of a giant man, which seemed to stand guard in the the entrance of the lagoon where Braavos was located. The feet of the statue laid on two separate islands, including Sellagoro's Shield, which was one of the outlying islands which protected the lagoon of Braavos, and each foot of the Titan was set upon a mountain. The islands were covered in soldier pines and black spruce. The legs and lower torso of the Titan was made of the same black granite that formed the islands upon which it stood; they were originally a natural stone archway, which was carved and shaped by three generations of sculptors and stonemasons. Above the waist, the colossus was made of bronze, its body filled with halls and chambers, its bronze breastplate punctured with arrow slits, which gave way for the Braavosi to attack the enemy ships from above. One hand of the Titan rested on the top of a ridge, its bronze fingers wrapped around the stone. The other hand was thrust into the air, holding the hilt of a broken sword. Viserys raised his head to see the head of the Titan. It was almost impossible to see the Titan's head, which rose to about four hundred feet above sea level and was crested with a bronze halfhelm. It had green-dyed hempen rope for hair. In the holes of its eyes burned large beacon fires, lighting the way back inside the lagoon for returning ships. The Titan's hips were encased in an armored skirt of a green bronze hue and the bottom was covered in murder holes.

Viserys had heard the the Titan of Braavos was the primary line of defense for Braavos. Enemy ships can be steered onto the rocks by the watchmen inside the Titan, and stones and pots of burning pitch can be dropped onto the decks of any that attempt to pass between the Titan's legs without leave. However, this has seldom been necessary; because no enemies have been so rash as to attempt to provoke the Titan's wrath.

When their ship, the Sea Dragon approached the entrance of Braavos, the Titan gave a loud roar to indicate the arrival of a ship and to alert the Arsenal of Braavos.

"They're indicating our arrival," Tycho Nestoris said as he came near him. Viserys turned to see the representative of the Iron Bank and nodded at him. He had no doubt that it was the the huge terrible, grinding blast of the Titan which roused the Braavosi up from whatever he was doing.

The Sea Dragon passed underneath the legs of the Titan and Viserys could see the Arsenal of Braavos sitting upon a knob of rock, fortified with stone battlements and bristling with scorpions, trebuchets, and spitfires.

The Arsenal also had a dock with room for dozens of galleys beneath it. Along it's shores were innumerable quays, docks, and wooden sheds holding many more ships of the strong Braavosi fleet. The Arsenal of Braavos was also the center of shipbuilding in Braavos. It is said that a war galley can be built in a day there.

The Sea Dragon made its way to the Chequy Port, which was located behind the Arsenal of Braavos, where their ship was inspected by the Sealord's customs officers upon their arrival in the city. Tycho Nestoris did the talking to them and soon enough the Sea Dragon made its way further into the free city of Braavos.

Soon enough they reached the Harbor where more cogs and ships were docked which were well alike the slender ships by which Tycho Nestoris came which indicated that all those ships belonged to the Iron Bank of Braavos.

As Viserys was looking at the ships and the Harbor of Braavos, Tycho Nestoris offered a personal welcome to his city. "Welcome to Braavos, Prince Viserys," he said.

The Prince looked at the city of Braavos wondering when his work here would finish and when would he be able to return to his home.

* * *

Author's Notes: A short chapter for Viserys. Just keep in mind that he is no so dumb.

Reply to guests

J from the last chapter: Really bro the Martells give no shit about the Dragons, then why the hell Doran betrothed Arianne to Viserys and sends Quentyn to Dany after Viserys dies.

To ChunkyFunkyMunky:An uncle of Robert, Stannis and Renly is named Andrew Estermont. Lord Flint (a house from the mountains of the north) is named Ondrew Flint which is derived from the root name Andrew. There is Endrew Tarth. Andrew is in the same name tree as the name Arthur. I chose the name using a baby name generator from parents' name. Andrew is derived both from Eddard and Ashara. Also I don't simply choose a random name which clicks in my mind. GRRM himself stated that he names his characters according to their characteristics and I followed in his way. I wanted some specific characteristics for him and the name Andrew perfectly fitted with the character. If you want go see the meaning for Andrew. In Greek it means a warrior associated with God. So remember Ashara's words to Andrew, "You're Andrew Stark hailed from the line of Gods and Kings." I don't think I could ever find a better name or correct name for him other than that. So that's it. Thank You.

To Supremus: And did Lyanna truly love her family? If that's the case why did she ran away from her family without even telling them about it. Why didn't she came away from her hideout when her father and brother were murdered for her actions? Why didn't she take any action to ensure the safety of Ned and Benjen who were fighting a war to save her?

Now I'm not saying that she never loved her family. I know she loved her family, but the thing is she chooses her well-being over that of her family. She runs away from Brandon's marriage. I mean what kind of sister runs away on her way to her brother's marriage? That is one disgusting and selfish act against Brandon and how can you say that she wouldn't choose her family over Ned's this time? That is what motive of her I used. Lyanna has two choices before she runs away, 1) Stay and attend Brandon's marriage and give Robert a chance just like Ned says. 2) Don't care for Brandon's marriage and enjoy your love or freedom or whatever she chose to call it. Obviously she chose the second option and cared only for herself and not for Brandon or his marriage or their family. Now if she can choose her well-being and life over Brandon and his life why won't she chose over Ned's and his family's? Why do you think she won't?


	6. Chapter 6

_**A**_ _ **egon**_

Up above in the sky the green dragon Rhaegal circled far away from the ground but yet in the sight of the Prince of Dragonstone, Aegon Targaryen. The dragon soared up above enjoying it's flight and Aegon watched the magnificent creature with awe. He'd had the dragon for almost eleven years now but he had never failed to appreciate this wonderful creature's magnificence and power.

The dragons had been gone for many a years from this world and ever since they had gone extinct the Targaryens had never been powerful as they had been once with their dragons. There had been various attempts to bring back the legendary beasts but none of them had succeeded and every attempt resulted in death and failure, until his aunt Daenerys had brought them to this world successfully with the help of a Red Priestess, eleven years before.

Now the dragons roamed the world once again and began to dominate it just like they'd once before. And the Targaryens were almost as feared and as invincible as their dragons. There had been talks of war almost throughout the Seven Kingdoms and even here in the Island of Dragonstone. But Aegon had no doubt that even if they had to face a war they would reign supreme without much trouble with the help of the dragons.

In the last eleven years the dragons had really grown to be the original terrifying beasts they were. With a wingspan of about the length of two huge war galleys Rhaegal was truly a great creature that would give nightmares to even the most bravest of the men this world could offer. When his brother's dragon Viserion was smaller than his own dragon Rhaegal, their aunt's black dragon, Drogon would effortlessly make his dragon Rhaegal look nothing more than a pony compared to a war horse. His aunt's dragon, Drogon had also been seen as Balerion the Black Dread, the monstrous dragon of Aegon the Conqueror himself.

Aegon walked back from the balcony to inside the Drum Tower, leaving his dragon to have some time for himself. The Drum Tower was a massive tower which was the central keep of Dragonstone. It was named for the booming and rumbling sounds that can be heard during storms, and the Prince soon came to find that it was a perfect name for the Tower.

He entered the top floor of the Drum Tower leaving his dragon outside in the vast wide world. He entered the Chamber of the Painted Table which was in the middle of the top floor of the Drum Tower. The Chamber of the Painted Table was a round room with four tall windows, overlooking the north, south, east and west, and bare black walls. It had a large table, the Painted Table, carved and painted in the form of the detailed map of Westeros. It was right here in this room where Aegon the Conqueror had planned for the invasion of Westeros. The Painted Table was a huge table with more than fifty feet long: roughly twenty-five feet wide at its widest point and four feet wide at its thinnest point. At the precise location of Dragonstone there was a raised seat which allowed the occupant to view the entire map from where Aegon the Dragon must've viewed the map he was about to conquer. The raised seat of the Painted Table was the favorite place of Aegon here in Dragonstone. It always made him feel as if he was Aegon the Conqueror himself.

Aegon knew he was to play an important role in the future of Westeros just like his ancestor Aegon the Conqueror had played years before. His father always told him that the dragon needed three heads, which he had now and that he was the Prince that was Promised. The one who would save Westeros from its ill fate. That's why he had been named Aegon as well, a conqueror name for a conqueror. But that name itself had brought a lot of the people's talks and mocks at him.

The people of the Seven Kingdoms accused his mother for the deaths of his father's first wife, Princess Elia Martell and her children. Some even considered him only as a bastard who'd usurped his own half brother, the real Aegon Targaryen's place as well his name. He knew that his family only had a little love among the Small folk but that had never troubled the Prince of Dragonstone. He was a dragon, he was raised by one, he was raised as one and the dragon never needs the love of the people when it has the fear of them.

Aegon seated on the raised seat of the Painted Table and looked at the map of the Kingdom which he would rule one day. He was brought out of his thoughts when the maester of Dragonstone, Maseter Karsan came opened the doors and came through it.

The Maester was a middle aged man, but had rare metals in his chain which indicated he was tutored in the rare forms of studies in the Citadel. Maester Karsan walked towards him and stopped at the head of the table near his chair. "A letter from your father, My Prince," the maester announced holding a scroll in his hands towards him.

When Aegon took the scroll from his hands still atop the raised chair, the maester bowed his head and left him alone. Once he was alone Aegon broke the red dragon seal of his father and opened the letter of his father. His eyes scanned his father's words and took note of everything he had to say.

The letter told him about of the latest news of his marriage. His father had planned to hold his marriage soon enough. Aegon knew that he would marry Arianne Martell one day to bind the ties of the Targaryens and the Martells anew once again after the deaths of Elia Martell and her children.

The Dornish Princess was beautiful, with a voluptuous figure that would have most of the men's jaw drop and Aegon had no trouble marrying Arianne Martell. Also they both knew each other for a certain extent. Moreover a marriage such as this would strengthen their bonding with the Great Houses of Westeros and Aegon wanted nothing more than the good for his family. His father had written that his marriage would take place soon enough, once his uncle Viserys returned from Braavos.

Aegon never had any trouble with travels since he had his dragon to do the work. Rhaegal could take him to anywhere within a short time. He'd even visited his brother Jaeherys who was the Lord of Winterfell and the Warden of the North often, even though Jae was in the North leagues away from him. But Rhaegal could take him to Winterfell and then back to Dragonstone without much trouble or taking much time, which would save him months if he'd taken a ship.

It had been months since Aegon had met his brother. Despite whatever the people say about their family, Aegon loved his brother and missed him. He missed those times when they used to train together in the Red Keep. Though Aegon was the better skilled swordsman between the brothers there had also been times when his brother would knock him down to the ground or disarm him.

He might get a chance to meet his brother soon, Aegon thought as his brother would attend his marriage for sure. Though they were brothers they had nothing similar in them. When Aegon took after the brown hair and grey eyes of his mother and the Targaryen face of his father, Jaeherys had taken completely after his father. He was the exact image of their father, with the classic Valyrian looks of silver hair and purple eyes.

Aegon took a piece of paper and wrote a reply letter to his father, telling him that he would reach King's Landing soon enough and asked his father to proceed with the plans of his marriage. When he was done he heated the black wax over the nearby candle and poured the melted wax onto the letter and pressed it with the three headed dragon stamp. When he was done he called for a guard. And the one who'd been standing guard at the doors came running in at once.

"My prince," the guard bowed his head showing his respect.

Aegon nodded at him and extended the letter to the guard from his high seat. "Take this letter to Maester Karsan," he told the guard, "and ask him to sent it to my father."

The guard took the letter from his hands and bowed his head again. He left the room with the Prince's letter to give it to the maester. When the guard left the Prince came down from his high seat. He went out to the balcony again to spend some time alone, flying in Rhaegal. Dragonstone was a cold and dreary place, with much less of visitors to keep him company. So Aegon had took it upon his dragon to keep him company and to get to the company he needs, swiftly without taking too much time.

From the moment he'd come to Dragonstone to rule it, he had been constantly visiting his family with the help of Rhaegal and sometimes he would even have his family visiting him occasionally with his brother and aunt coming often as visitors with their own dragons. Being in Dragonstone can be boring with little people to talk with and most of them being complete strangers but the visits of his family and brother and aunt were too good to have and Aegon used to host feasts to enjoy with them.

Rhaegal had been fishing in the the sea, diving from above the surface of water in a terrible speed from above and then taking flight with huge whale calves in its legs which were unfortunate enough to swim up at the surface without the knowledge of the dragon flying above. It was not easy for even a dragon to get away with a full grown whale but the calves of the whales were a good enough meal for Rhaegal. Even the monstrous calves of the whales were so little in the legs of the dragon and Aegon thought about how his father had been true when he'd got the dragon as a hatchling, which was no more bigger than a full grown hunting falcon and used to settle on his shoulders.

'You should let a dragon to have his way with his freedom. The bigger the place for a dragon to grow, the more bigger it would grow.' His father had said then and looking at Rhaegal now, dominating the other creatures with his presence Aegon got to see the truth of it. Rhaegal was already huge enough and he was growing still. By the time he would have kids of his own Rhaegal would become as huge as one of Aegon the Conqueror and his sisters' dragons.

With a creature so big and powerful as Rhaegal in his side, Aegon thought that nothing in this could trouble him. So he had nothing in this world to worry about. The talks of Rebellion, the talks about his family didn't mattered to him for he was a dragon and had a dragon. They were very well welcome to say whatever they had to say about him and his family but as long as the people feared them, all those talks were useless as that of a halfwit's idea and with the dragons behind them, the people were afraid of them and they will be for the end of their days.

"Rhaegal," the Prince called after his dragon as he flew by.

The bronze eyed beast snaked his neck back to look at him and made a loop in the sky and turned back and flew to him. The mighty green beast landed gently on top of the Drum Tower with a loud thud which sounded like the collapse of the Drum Tower itself. But Dragonstone was built strong enough with the magic techniques and sorcery of Old Valyria. The Castle was built strong enough to withstand even the might of the dragons and Dragonstone was used to the presence of dragons.

Aegon made his way atop the tower using the spiral steps designed in the shape of a dragon, starting from its tail and ascending up its abdomen and coming out of its mouth on the other side which was on top of the Drum Tower.

When Aegon reached the dragon, he petted the snout of Rhaegal, the bronze eyes of the beast fixed onto to him showing his acceptance. Rhaegal crouched lower and Aegon used the wings of Rhaegal and his horns to get atop to his seat on the dragon. Once he reached his spot the Prince looked down at the world, how small and petty it seemed from above a dragon and Aegon Targaryen himself felt as powerful and mighty as his dragon.

* * *

Author's Notes: I followed the TV show's manner in this Aegon thing. Also, I have this story posted as a series in the AO3 universe with some wonderful pictures. I know many of you don't follow AO3 but I could use your help and support in there too, so if you could lend your support for me in there as well. It is a headstart in AO3 as I've already started this story there in AO3 even before I could afford a pc to publish it here in FFN. So do show your support if you could and enjoy the story.


	7. Chapter 7

_**Andrew**_

The morning was as cold as every mornings here in Braavos. When Andrew opened his windows he could see that it was foggier that the last morning. The foggier the air was, the colder the air will be.

Andrew never got a good sleep yesterday, but that was no big deal since he was used to troubled sleeps for the past eleven years. And all the cause for his troubled sleeps were the same and yesterday was no exception. He had the same dream again, when he was a little boy of five, playing happily in his mother's arms, until everything turned to dark, black and mess and gore. He saw his mother glowing in the starlight, with the same sweet smile of hers while tears rolled past her cheeks. He saw his father, with that kind smile he'd give at him always, his cold grey eyes growing soft as the fogs outside covering Braavos when he saw him or his mother. He saw his uncle, throwing him up in the air before catching him in his arms. He'd loved that part, until everything changed to. His mother's eyes leaking with tears of blood, his father burning in a raging fire that his lips only opened to scream, not to smile at him and his uncle Arthur throwing him up in the air but missing to catch him.

Andrew sighed leaving to keep the thoughts of the dream buried deep into the deepest and darkest place of his heart. He had tried to forget about the dream for about numerous times thinking that if he'd managed to forget it he would not see it, but only to fail in that. No matter how hard he had tried to forget the dream, he couldn't forget it. No matter how hard he tried to get rid off it, he couldn't get rid of it. It's like the dream had stuck with him, like a part of him. The dream was as if it was a part of his body, a part of his own soul, so no matter how hard he tried he could never ever get rid of it and Andrew had learnt to live with it.

He moved over to the water basin to wash up the sleepiness from his face after a bad sleep. Even the reflection of his face in the water brought up the old memories of his family. His face had changed a lot in the last eleven years. He had a beard now and his features had grown strong unlike the child he was in the dreams. Though he still had a resemblance of his father in his face. His mother used to say that he looked like his father and the household of Winterfell seemed to agree it too. They used to say that, he was more like his father and only had a little of his mother in him, which was undoubtedly his dark hair. Andrew could see that now, his hair had grown shades darker now.

He'd always wondered what it would be like if he returned to Winterfell now. But the answer to that was pretty simple and he knew that. They would never believe him to be Andrew Stark, son of Lord Eddard Stark and Lady Ashara Stark. Andrew Stark would have been dead, buried in the minds of the people of Westeros, just like his parents had been.

When he had finished bathing, he clad himself in his fresh, usual outfit of the dark pants and white tunic shirt with a brown jacket over it. When he pulled his boots up he moved to the water basin again to set his hair in the way he preferred. He never had a long hair like his father nor the short one like his uncle Arthur. He had medium length hair, which he kept short in the sides and the back and slicked back the wet hair up in the top.

When Andrew finished dressing his hair, he took Frost before he left his room. Walking with a sword on the back was not a common sight here in Braavos. But even he himself was odd in Braavos, from the clothes he wore to his looks everything screamed of Westeros and that's why Syrio had made him as Andrew Snow, a westerosi bastard, as if to not gather a lot of attention to himself.

Andrew walked down the steps to the inn, his boots thudding against the wooden steps. There were only a few number of people in the Foghouse that day. But given the time, it was too early for too much of crowd, the people would only rouse and get to their daily activities only after the sun had wiped away the fog for everyone to see clearly.

The girls were chatting and giggling together since there was no need for them to be active for a few number of people. Illola was counting the money and was arranging them in the respective orders. The Braavosi iron squares, the Lyseni ovals, in which a naked girl is stamped on one side, the Norvosi triangluar coins and various others including the gold dragons and silver stags of Westeros were all arranged seperately. Andrew reached Illola's desk and greeted her. "Good morning, Illola."

"Good morning, Andrew," Illola greeted back. "You got up sooner today?" She asked him.

Andrew rolled his eyes at that.

Illola smiled at him and continued. "Well anyway that's a good thing," she said. "There is a man here looking for you." Illola pointed at the corner of the inn where a man was seated looking away from them.

Andrew looked at the man and then back at Illola, confused. "Did he tell anything?" He asked her.

"Mm, not so much. Just that he was here to see you," Illola told as she took the arranged coins and put them in their respective drawers of her table. She closed the drawer and looked up at him. "Must be something with 'your business'."

Andrew looked at the man. He could only see his back. He turned to Illola. "I will see what he wants from me," he told her and walked to his usual place by the window.

"Do you want to break your fast now and would you rather have it after he leaves?" Illola asked him.

"Sent it to my table now," Andrew told her. "I don't know how long this is going to take," he said walking over to his table.

The Foghouse was lit up by the candles in the early morning. Candles were needed here in Braavos since the fogs would make it tougher to see in early morning. The sun would clear up the fogs only when it is up above in the sky.

Illola brought him his breakfast with a tankard full of strong beer. She kept his food on his table, before him and moved to the table in which the man was seated.

Andrew took a drink of his strong beer and moved on to take a bite from his bread. The bread was fresh from the oven and Illola had given him a big one. He could hear the crust of the bread crunch as he ripped off a chunk from it. That was one of the uniqueness of the Foghouse. No other inn here in Braavos could make a fine bread than Illola's. That's why the Foghouse had a good number of customers everyday even though it was situated in a noisy place like the Ragman Harbor.

When Andrew took a bite of the fresh bread, the man came near him. Andrew looked up at him, chewing his bread and gestured for him to sit. The man took the seat opposite to him. He was an old man with grey hair and his beard was completely white. His face had wrinkles and the lines in his face appeared more because of worry and sorrow rather than the age.

Andrew took a gulp of his strong beer to wash down the bread and looked up at the man. "Who are you? What do you want?"

The man seemed to be taken aback by his bluntness. He looked at Frost in its sheath near him and then eyed back at him. "I need your help."

Andrew raised his eyebrow at him. "Help? What help?"

"My name is Gyllaro Dynar," the old man said. "I was a wealthy merchant once. I owned ships, shops, a mansion and a family." Andrew could see the man's hands shaking and he was visibly upset when he mentioned his family. "But he took everything from me. My friend and partner. He betrayed me and deceived me, taking all my wealth and worse..." the old man's breath hitched, " he made me to sell my own family into slavery. My wife, my daughter and my son..." The old man tried hard to hold back his tears. He recollected himself after a moment and continued. "I don't want his wealth or anything, all I want is justice for my family before I die."

Andrew understood what he wanted from him. The old man wanted him to assassinate his old friend. Though the man's story seemed believable he wanted to make sure that he didn't killed an innocent person just because of his false judgement. "Listen I don't do things like that."

"I know," the old man said at once. "I've heard about you. His house is located near the Iron Bank, a big one with two red basilisk statues in the front. You can go see it for yourself. His name is Syro Irrirah."

Andrew watched the old man closely. He could see the truth in his words. There was no reason for him to lie. From the old, torn rags he had worn to the sad lines on his face everything had honesty in them. This was not about the money for him, he thought. This was about betrayal and this was about family. The old man's problem was just like his own, betrayed and lost the family. But still he had to see it with his own eyes. He just can't turn away from his principle just because of a pitiful story.

Andrew took another bite of his bread with a piece of boiled egg with it. "I'll go look at it, but I can't make any promises."

That brought a smile in the face of the old man. "Thank you," he said, "That is all I wanted to hear." He touched his clothes searching for money but by the look of it Andrew knew that he didn't had the money.

"I only get the money once I finish the job," he informed the old man. If whatever the old man had told him were true he would never get any money from him. He would do the job for free. The old man nodded at him.

With that the old man got up and made to leave. Andrew stopped him and gave him the remaining bread and the two boiled eggs. "Go on, have them and fill up your stomach."

The old man's face brightened and he got the bread and the eggs with a smile. His mother had once told him that 'There is no better feeling than making a hungry man smile.' And Andrew found how true his mother had been when he saw the old man's smile as he gave him the bread and the eggs.

He smiled back at the old man and the old man left the Foghouse happy and sated. Andrew took his tankard and drank the remaining beer from his tankard. Illola came to take the plates and tankard away.

"So what was that all about?" She asked him as she collected the used plate and tankard.

"Nothing but work," he replied. "Do anyone have to repay or is there anything I could do for you today?" He asked.

"No," Illola shook her head. "We are all good."

Andrew nodded. He got up and slung Frost to his back. "I'll be out for a while and will be back by evening," he told her.

Illola nodded. Andrew made his way out of the inn. He was near the door when she called him. "Andrew, be careful," she said to him.

Andrew nodded once and gave her a small smile. "I will," he said and stepped out of the inn.

The fogs had grown smoother by the rise of the sun and the people had started to take up their duties of the day. He took the canal way to the Iron Bank. The walk was pretty easy without the crowd and it took less time to reach the Iron Bank. Once he reached the Iron Bank he searched for the house of Syro Irrirah. Every house surrounding the Iron Bank were big enough, given that the houses belonged to the people who worked in the Iron Bank he was not surprised that they were big. He was searching for the house with the two red basilisk statues the old man mentioned as Syro Irrirah's house when he saw him, coming out from a building which was bigger than every other buildings surrounding it, with a beautiful woman of dark skin adorned in jewels of all shapes and kinds and colors who was none other than the Black Pearl herself. Silver blond hair fell to his shoulders and his eyes still had the same malice which he had seen eleven years before.

"There is she, in the woods," he still remembered his words just like he remembered his face. "The first one to catch her will get a chance to taste her. Not even the noblest of the men in Westeros would get a chance to fuck the most beautiful woman in the world."

Just as he had seen him eleven years before, Viserys Targaryen walked within a few feet away from him with his guards and entered the Iron Bank. He never knew whether it was true or it was just a dream. But if it was true, the time he had been waiting for, had come at last. Andrew never had any belief in Gods but for once he thanked the Gods of his parents for he had got the chance for which he had been waiting for the past eleven years, for giving him his chance to avenge his family.

* * *

Author's Notes: Oh, things are going to move so fast hereafter. Thank you for reading. Leave a comment if you liked it and even if you don't.

Reply for Guests from last chapter:

Guest: Yeah I know that naming Dany's dragon as Drogon won't make any sense. I tried to make a name from Dany's name like naming the other two dragons from her brothers' name but I couldn't find a decent one, so I stuck to it since Drogon too starts with D and doesn't sounds so distant from Daenerys. For the others, I don't think it is so odd. If Dany's dragon was named after her it is well ok to name the others after the brothers' since all three came from the same fire.


	8. Chapter 8

**_Jon Arryn_**

The mountain road can be dangerous even in the broad daylight and Jon Arryn knew his lands better than anyone. The descent from the Eyrie had been long, by the chain winch and then a ride by the mules before they could ride their horses. As High as Honor were the words of House Arryn and the Arryns had lived up to it in almost everything they did.

They had crossed the perilous mountain road with the help of Mya Stone and her mules. Robert's firstborn was an exact copy of her father. From her looks of black hair and the blue eyes of Robert, to the courage and the absolute fear for nothing, everything she had taken from Robert.

Though Mya was Robert's firstborn, she was a Stone and a bastard. But that didn't stopped Jon from taking her into his home and his service. He loved and saw Robert as his own son and his children as his own grandchildren. And Jon Arryn loved Mya Stone as his granddaughter as much as he loved Robert's trueborn children as his grandchildren, even the stupid and arrogant Joffrey. And Mya even reminded him of Robert sometimes, by her timidness and stubbornness yet she lacked the fun loving character that her father had possessed greatly.

For the last eleven years life hasn't been easy as he had thought it would be. From the moment Aerys executed his friend Rickard Stark with his heir Brandon Stark, Jon found out that the rumors about the King had been true. Aerys was Mad and worse he'd summoned him to give up his boys, Robert and Ned whom he loved like his own children. When he'd gotten Aerys' letter, Jon burned the letter up in the fire just like Aerys had done to Rickard Stark and refused to give up his foster sons. He was even ready to call his banners if the King chose to get them by force.

But to make the matters even worse Rhaegar and Lyanna came out from their hideout, showing their true colors for all of the Seven Kingdoms to see. But even that had a positive look to it. Just because they chose to come out and confront Aerys a major war was prevented but only for a time.

Robert was so angry after knowing that they ran off together. At first he had even refused to believe that Lyanna had chosen the Dragonspawn, as he liked to call Rhaegar, over him. But when they made their marriage publicly before the eyes of the people of Westeros, over the corpses of Rickard Stark, Brandon Stark and Catelyn Stark along with Princess Elia and her children's, everything became clear.

Ned was afraid at first, then confused but when his sister emerged happily, hand-in-hand with Rhaegar Targaryen over the dead bodies of their family, he'd been so angry that Jon had never seen the calm and collective Ned as angry as that before. Both of them wanted justice. The northerners demanded justice for the murders of their lord and heir. The stormlords were enough of the slights the Targaryens had inflicted upon them. And both Ned and Robert wanted justice.

But he had known that was not the time for that. Though they might've joined most of the men against the dragons they were in the vulnerable state possible. Robert had Stannis and Renly as his heirs, one of them who was only a child. He only had his nephew Elbert as his heir. And Ned's situation was even worse with no heir to take up the mantle of Lord of Winterfell after him, after his brother Benjen had offered to join the Night's Watch for helping Lyanna Stark in her tryst with Rhaegar Targaryen.

So it fell to Jon to calm both of them down and to make the necessary things to make that happen. He made the match of Robert and Cersei, joining Tywin Lannister into the fold. Ned's marriage came in the easy way. He had already married the Lady Ashara Dayne before the Heart Tree at Harrenhal and they chose to solidify it in the eyes and laws of the men. The Daynes were one of the oldest houses in Westeros, from the time of the Age of Heroes. Legends even states that the Daynes hailed from the line of Gods. And they came with the blood of royalty. An unison between the two of the oldest houses in Westeros would have the heads of the people turned towards them and it would increase their prestige and power among the Lords and the people of Westeros. And it did. Ned's marriage with Ashara Dayne had been the talk of the people all the way from Dorne to the Wall. And lastly Jon himself married Lysa Tully after Lord Hoster himself proposed the match wanting justice for the murder of his eldest daughter.

Everything had been perfect as much as Jon thought it would be. They were in the best shape possible with the births of their heirs. They had even tied up the knots which would bound them up for all the generations to come. He had planned all the things with a clear picture, checking them twice and more before acting it out. And yet Rhaegar had somehow managed to outwit him. When he murdered Ned and his wife with their son, the tower which they had been building came crumbling down all upon them. And they had never managed to get back to their true power after that.

That had troubled Jon for the last eleven years. With one move they'd lost Ned, his family and the entire help of the north. Now with the marriage of Rhaegar's son arriving, he had to make sure that they were safe, that he would not lose anyone again just like he'd lost his Ned. He knew very well of why Rhaegar was doing this especially now. And Jon wanted to show him that they were not so weak and alone as he thinks they are. And that would come with this marriage. Houses Bartheon and Arryn and Lannister and Tully all coming together to protect themselves in the union of his daughter Alyssa and Robert's son, Gendry.

For about half a thousand times Jon was happy that Gendry being Robert's firstborn and not Joffrey. Though they were brothers they shared nothing but blood. With the black hair and blue eyes, the classic Bartheon looks, Gendry was the perfect image of Robert. He shared the same skill and thirst of Robert for fighting and preferred a warhammer for a sword just like Robert. He was well behaved and good with Alyssa everytime they had met. Truthfully his daughter was in love with him too, Jon thought looking at his daughter riding her mare, giggling and chatting with her maids. She has never told him about that but he could see it in the way she was excited for her upcoming marriage.

The mountain road can be dangerous for ladies to ride openly. It possessed dangers like the mountain clans and shodowcats and other likes of them. But Jon had brought a good amount of guards with his party along with Ser Brynden Tully, the Knight of the Gate as the captain of guards. Moreover Jon often used to send the Knights of the Vale to deal with the troubles of the mountain clans. With that the troubles of the Mountain Clans had reduced significantly and they had learnt to stay well away from the paths of the Knights of the Vale.

When Robert and Ned were fostering with him, he used to bring them along with him to the fights sometimes. Robert would always enjoy the fight and used to show his sheer skill in the battle while Ned takes part in it in his own way. He missed those old days he had spent with them. He missed Robert's hearty laugh, Ned's solemn look, he missed them all. Now the halls of the Eyrie were filled with the sounds and laughs of his son and daughter. He even had a reminder of Robert with him. But the only thing Jon didn't had was Ned, not even a reminder of him.

He had Gendry as the reminder of the Robert he'd raised, he had Mya Stone as the part of Robert with him. But he had nothing of Ned. The calm and solemn boy who used to listen everything he has to say and who obeys to his every words. Robert was wild, always. And Jon understood his nature, as the one who does what he wants and how he wants. He would listen to him, but there were some occasions where he hadn't and he had to push him further into listening. He even caused a scene with the rotten oranges one day in a formal breakfast. Jon smiled remembering it.

But there had been no trouble for him with Ned. Ned was calm and quiet who would listen to him without sparing him the headaches. Ned rarely smiled after the things happened with his family and the Targaryens. He was never the boy who used to smile and laugh along with Robert in the Eyrie after that. And Jon understood that, after everything he had went through it had been difficult for him. The only time he had seen him smile after that was when he was with his wife and son. When Jon saw to both the marriages of Robert and Ned, he had wanted them to be happy. And in Ned's case he believed his thoughts came true.

Robert's relationship with his wife was complicated. They had needed Tywin Lannister's help if they were to rebel. But in Ned's case it was simple and filled with love for everyone to see. Ashara Dayne loved him, made him smile and Jon had been thankful for that. Ned returned to his life, he started to smile more, he used to talk more and when Ashara Dayne had birthed him his son he'd been so happy that Jon felt the young boy he'd raised in him. To think that he was not with him anymore hurt.

"What are you thinking about father?" a voice asked bringing him out of his old thoughts. His son Robert Arryn, named after his foster son Robert rode beside him, his head held high and proud as befits the falcon of the Arryn.

"Nothing," Jon told his son. He looked at his son. With the blond hair and the blue eyes Jon couldn't help but remembering his own self by seeing him.

"When do you think we will reach mother's home?" Robert asked.

"I don't know lad," Jon replied looking around their party. "At this pace we could save some time."

They were having a very good pace and was a bit ahead of their journey just in case to confuse Varys if the spider had known about their plans somehow. Robert would be on his way by the ship as well, to save the time. Though there was a fine chance for the Conningtons to know about it, since the ship would pass through their castle.

"My lord," Ser Vardis Egen came to him. "Ser Brynden says that this would be a good place for the night's stay."

Jon looked around the place. The ground was was even with wisps of brown grass grown from the clefts and crevices. A stream flowed down along the road. A night ride in the high road could be perilous. The high road was filled with stones. Up here the land was harsh and wild, and the high road little more than a stony track. And at night the road possessed double the danger it did in the light.

"Mm," he nodded. "Tell the men to make the camp here."

The knight nodded and left to Ser Brynden to tell his orders. Their party came to a halt and the men started to put up the tents for the nights. They used long iron stakes for the ground was hard and rocky. The horses were led to the stream to be watered and it was used by the men too.

Robert left towards the stream and Jon followed his son. He washed his face and hands in the icy cold water.

"Enjoying the rest, my lord," Ser Brynden asked kneeling down to use the water of the stream.

Jon nodded smiling. Ser Brynden had followed his wife after their marriage and entered into his service. He was a great knight and moreover a good friend and family.

"Alyssa seems pretty excited about her marriage," Ser Brynden asked looking at his daughter who was laughing and having her time with Myranda Royce and her other maids.

"Aye, she is." Jon said cupping the cold water of the stream in his hands and spraying it in his face.

"She reminds me so much of Cat," Ser Brynden said his voice growing low. "She was excited about her marriage too."

Jon looked to Ser Brynden who turned away from his daughter to look back at him. "I haven't forgotten my neice's death just like you haven't forgotten your Ned's," Ser Brynden told, his face growing hard. The rage in him was evident for Jon to see. "So you think this plan would work?" He asked.

Jon looked around and then down towards the running water. He looked at the running water for a moment before saying, "It should."

* * *

 _ **Author's Notes: So, I know I've been too long away. anyways its good you see you again guys and its definitely feels good to be back here. okay, Jon was hard to bring out. Please leave a review of what you thought about this chapter. I'd love to hear your thoughts. Also, if you have any more constructive criticisms to make the story better please do tell.**_


	9. Chapter 9

**_Andrew Stark_**

The moon was a silver disc hanging lonely in the sky. The night sky was just a dark soft ceiling concealed in the fogs. The stars in the sky were nonexistent, as the puffs of grey grew think and hard in the night. The night was dank and chilly and Andrew drew his brown jacket close. There was only an oil lamp to lit up the place and he could see no fire for all the distance he could see.

He leaned onto the broken wooden pillar which suspended a half destroyed roof of a room whose only remains were the wooden pillar, the half destroyed roof and only one side of the wall stood out of the four of the room. He had Frost unsheathed in his hands, the tip of the frozen sword grazing against the wooden floor.

The broken room stood adjacent to the bridge, overgoing one of the branches of the Long Canal which connected the southern end of the main land of Braavos where the Iron Bank and most of its representatives palaces were located to the place where the most popular brothel in Braavos was situated. Those two were the busiest places one could see in Braavos along with the Ragman Harbor. Picking up a spot such as that to kill a man wouldn't be a best option. But the magic here in Braavos was that, it had many other ways in order to reach a specific place and there were other bridges which connected both the lands as well. Other bridges in their best shape and well maintained and frequently used while this thing was old and gaunt and unused by people for many years. Still everything had a reason to exist and was useful in certain way, and the old bridge helped the noble ones of Braavos to get into the brothels unnoticed and without too much trouble from their fellow citizens.

The old bridge was deserted by the people of the Braavos after bridges, better and shorter than that came into existence. Now the only ones to use it were the rich men and the nobles of Braavos only to get a warm night's sleep or if they were tired of their wives and needed a change. Andrew had never found a use for the bridge, until now. Now the bridge had showed it's true use for him for it is this bridge which is going to help him to avenge his family.

For the last few days Andrew had done nothing but follow Viserys Targaryen, taking note of wherever he goes, whatever he does, when he has more number of guards around him and when less and which of them comes in his guard in his private moments. And he had managed to find out almost all of his day's routine.

The mad dragon took to spend his mornings in the Iron Bank with the bankers. He always had a good number of guards guarding him during the morning. He used to have his midday meal in the Iron Bank and used to spend every morning to evening in there with the bankers. Then he returned to the palace with all of his guards when the sun goes down. But once the moon had took the place of the sun in the sky, Viserys Targaryen unfurled his secret part just like the night unfurled the dark. He used to go to the brothel almost every night to spend the night with the Black Pearl. Some days he would bring her to the palace where he was staying in and some days he would spend the night with her in the brothel. When he goes to meet up with the Black Pearl he would take only a small guard with him. Only four men accompanied Viserys Targaryen in his visits to the brothel. And as every other rich merchant and the upper class people of Braavos living near the Iron Bank, he used the Old Bridge for his brief travels.

That made a clear picture for Andrew. Instead of making heavy plans, he had the plan right before him. A deserted bridge and less number of guards made the things easier. With the fogs and the dark to cover him, he could very well kill all of them even before they could understand what had attacked them.

He had been here from the time the the western horizon had gone red. Following Viserys he'd stopped here while the mad dragon had continued on his way to the brothel. He didn't wanted to miss any chances and risk it. Eleven years he'd been waiting for this day and from this day on the dragons will feel the same pain he had felt all these years.

Viserys Targaryen was only the start of the demise of the Targaryens. Andrew knew what a great opportunity this was not only for the death of Viserys Targaryen. When Rhaegar Targaryen hears about his brother's death in Braavos that would definitely lure him to Braavos. Even if he didn't care for his brother he would definitely come for that contract with the Iron Bank. And that contract will be his end just like his brother's had been, Andrew would make sure of it.

The night was chilly. The cold wind blew through and his exposed face felt the worst of it. Andrew cursed himself for not bringing a cloak with him. He moved over to the lamp and put his hands over the heat. The lamp provided the heat he needed and helped him to see in the foggy night. The world looked a grey gloom covered in the fogs even the moonlight had to fight it's way through the fogs to reach the surface. He took his heated palms and pressed them against his cheeks.

The Canal flowed slowly, moving gradually on its way. In the mornings there is a fine chance of seeing some rowboats passing through but it was highly unlikely to see one in the night. With the dark around the boatmen won't risk for a crash and even for their life. The canals in Braavos could be as dangerous as Faceless Men. All you have to do to hide a corpse is to dump it into the canals and the fishes would do the rest. And a crash could very well help you to sleep with the fishes.

His mouth opened in a big yawn and Andrew found sleep clouding his eyes. For the last two days he never slept, always going over the plans to take down the dragon. He damned himself for not taking a good sleep for the last few days. But that wasn't all of it. Even if he had tried to sleep, then the dreams would come to disturb it. Andrew smiled thinking how distant he was from a good deep sleep.

He remembered those old times when he would sleep in his mother's arms, back then sleep had been the easiest of all. Back at Winterfell he would always sleep with his mother's arms around him and never once dreams had frightened him. His mother had always been there to protect him from nightterrors only now she wasn't here to protect him anymore.

Andrew sighed and looked at the flickering flame of the oil lamp. The flame flickered heavily as if to die out when a gush of cold wind passed. Andrew immediately cupped his hands around it and prayed that it doesn't die out. The lamp was the only thing which helped him to see and protected him from the cold. He could see to a certain extent with the help of the moonlight and his clothes kept him warm. But the lamp provided the heat needed for his face and his hands.

He was growing tired every second of the passing time and found himself starting to doze. He got up and walked over to the edge of the wooden platform and knelt. The water was as dark as the night though the true color of it would've been a murky green or a blue. At night there is no colors and nothing but dark. He cupped the cold water in his hands and washed his face clear from the sleep. Doing a work sleepily would only manage to spoil it and Andrew didn't wanted that to happen.

Andrew wondered how long has it been. He was certain that it was past midnight now. The Titan's roar would indicate the time, but he could hear nothing for sometime. Andrew returned to his place by the lamp. He turned back to check if anyone was coming but only saw a beetle buzzing towards the fire.

He took Frost in his hands and waited. He had waited eleven long years for this day and a few more hours won't be much of a trouble. He was glad that he'd brought his dinner or else hunger would've troubled him as much as his sleepiness. Illola had given him a good chunk of bread with boiled oysters and fried sardines for his dinner after he had told her about his plan. Illola was the only one here in Braavos who knew his true name and identity and she kept it a perfect secret that even her daughters never knew of it. She had been afraid about it at first but then realised that he needs to do it.

Just as he was thinking about it he heard footsteps behind him. He could hear the boots thudding against the wood clearly as the night was calm and quiet. As soon as he heard the sound of the footsteps the tiredness and the sleepiness which covered him disappeared and Andrew felt as if he was filled with energy. He could hear the sounds of the footsteps nearing and Andrew leaned over to see them.

He saw all the five of them he'd seen in the evening. Two of them had torches in their hands, one in the front and one in the back. Viserys Targaryen walked in the middle. He had no problem identifying him even in the dark. The silver hair was all messed up, courtesy of the Black Pearl, thought Andrew. He moved back with Frost in his hands and waited for the perfect time to strike.

The footsteps grew closer and closer. Thud, Thud, Thud... the uneven steps of the men arriving further and further. Andrew found himself losing him calmness as he heard the footsteps coming closer and closer to him. He had been waiting for this moment for the last eleven years yet he found himself backing now. He sighed and thought about his parents and family. He remembered his father's smile, his uncle Arthur's laughs and most importantly he remembered his mother's words. 'Remember who you are Andrew. You are Andrew Stark, hailed from the line of Gods and Kings. Whatever you do remember that.' He remembered her sweet smile, her kiss and her, 'I love you.'

Andrew heard the footsteps nearer now. He took the oil lamp and threw it at their way on the wooden platform and hid in the dark. The lamp hit the wood and the fire went out.

"Fuck," Viserys Targaryen muttered and the footsteps stopped. "Who goes there?"

Andrew moved quietly with the dark. He took his dagger in his hand and moved further along the broken wall of the destroyed room.

"Go and see who is that," Viserys Targaryen ordered and he could hear one of the men walking towards him.

He could see the golden glow of the fire approaching him from the other side. 'I love you' Andrew heard the words again. He held his dagger in a back grip and waited near the edge of the Wall. The glow of the torch grew brighter as the guard neared and when he turned, he ended right in front of him and Andrew opened his throat swiftly with a single slash before he could even shout. The torch he was carrying thudded against the wood with his corpse and the fire went out.

Andrew could hear the sound of steel scraping against the wood and leather as they drew their swords from the scabbards. "Shit," one of them yelled and the four of them moved closer drawing their blades bringing themselves in the light.

Using the light of their torch Andrew could see all four of them, watching to every direction with their backs to each other. Andrew threw the dagger at the one in the front facing him and before his body could drop to the floor he rushed a the remaining three.

Andrew kicked Viserys Targaryen. The Targaryen prince stumbled back and fell on the ground. He pressed his attack on the remaining two guards before they could even collect themselves. The guard who held the torch dropped his torch and fortunately it didn't go out. Andrew fought the two guard in the light of the torch. He pressed his attack on both of them simultaneously, attacking the guard on the right, then parrying the attack from his left. The song of steel filled the silent night. Andrew wielded Frost, quick and gracefully, his attacks fell on both the guards in a fluidic motion without missing his steps. He landed two more attack for his every defence. Soon enough he found the opening he needed, he turned the attack from his left with a two handed slash from below and in one swift motion he brought Frost back from his left and split the left knee of the guard whose sword was far away to stop his attack and without wasting a moment Andrew parried the sword of guard on his right with a backhand slash and brought Frost swinging down, cutting the guard open from his shoulder to hip. When the guard on his right fell lifelessly to the ground, Andrew shoved Frost right through the kneeling guard on his left killing him instantly.

When both the guards were dead Andrew turned towards Viserys Targaryen. The dragon was just gaping at him from the ground with a sword in his hand. When he saw him he scrambled up from the ground with all the strength he could muster.

"I'm going to fucking kill you bastard," Viserys Targaryen roared and rushed towards him. "You shouldn't wake the dragon."

Andrew parried his attacks effortlessly, left and right he deflected Viserys' attacks and soon started to press his attack and sent the Targaryen on his heel. He pressed further and further, landing attacks to Viserys' left and right and crossed and locked swords with him briefly before yanking the blade away from Viserys' hands. He slammed the silver and glass pommel of Frost into his face, sending him back to the ground.

Andrew wanted nothing more than to kill the monster then and there but he remembered the words he had said about his mother. 'The first one to catch her will get a chance to taste her. Not even the noblest of the men in Westeros would get a chance to fuck the most beautiful woman in the world.' At the age of five Andrew never understood what it meant, but being a man it was hard not knowing about it. He had heard something that no son should hear about his mother and the gods only knew what tortures this monster had inflicted upon his mother.

Once he dumped the dead guards in the canal, he took the rope he'd brought and tied it to the leg of Viserys. He dragged him through the wood back in the way he came.

"Who the fuck are you?" Viserys Targaryen asked him as he dragged him through the ground but Andrew kept quiet. "I am the Prince of the Seven Kingdoms you bastard. I am a dragon." The Mad Dragon continued his rant. He offered him lordship, wealth and everyother things on their way back and Andrew replied him with sharp tugs which would bang his head in the wood.

Whatever time it has been, there was no one around when they reached the Pearl House, the brothel where the Black Pearl resided. Viserys Targaryen went on again from the start asking who he was again and again before continuing with his offers. Andrew felt the rage pouring over him once more. He left Viserys before the Pearl House and pummelled his face with his fists until nothing but mess was remained of the Prince's once pretty face. Viserys' face was bashed in that he could not speak anymore.

Andrew unwound the rope from Viserys' leg and tied it around his neck. He threw the other end of the rope over the bar from where the board 'The Pearl House' hung indicating the brothel. Andrew pulled the rope on the other side which lifted Viserys Targaryen off the ground. When he'd pulled Viserys upright with only his legs on the ground he kicked and turned the Mad Dragon to face him. Viserys Targaryen tried to say something but he couldn't talk with the broken mouth.

"You wanted to know me, didn't you?" Andrew asked holding the rope which was tied around Viserys' neck. The Prince never showed any response to it. "There is she, in the woods... The first one to catch her will get a chance to taste her... Not even the noblest of the men in Westeros would get a chance to fuck the most beautiful woman in the world." With every sentence Viserys Targaryen's broken face gradually grew big in shock. "I am her son." His eyes looked as though they would jump out and Andrew saw the fear in his eyes, fear as if he'd seen the death itself. "I am Andrew Stark, son of Lord Eddard Stark and Lady Ashara Dayne." With that Andrew pulled the rope with all his might hanging Viserys Targaryen from the bar along with the board of the brothel the Pearl House, with his legs flailing and kicking.

Andrew tied the rope to a big stone nearby and walked away from the Mad Dragon, not even turning to the chokings and gaspings of Viserys Targaryen, leaving him alone with his chokes and gasps.

* * *

 _ **Author's Notes: How about some good old sweet revenge? Things are going to go faster from here.**_


	10. Chapter 10

**_Rhaegar_**

The scroll laid rolled up and crushed on the table of the Small Council. There was murmuring and muttering and voices speaking in hushed tones which was very unusual in the Small Council of Rhaegar Targaryen, King of the Andals, First Men and the Rhoynar. The council meeting was initially organised to make up the plans for the marriage of his son Aegon, but now the news which they were handling was a much less pleasant one than that of a marriage.

'To King Rhaegar Targaryen, King of the Andals, First Men and the Rhoynar, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, with deep regrets we inform you that your brother, Prince Viserys was found dead, hanging from the Pearl House. We are sending the Prince's body back in the ship which brought him here with two ships of our own to provide protection in order if something bad happens on the way. The ship will set sail the same time as the raven with this letter takes off so it will reach you soon enough.'

Rhaegar had read the letter again and again for at least a dozen times that he could bring out every words in the letter to make a new copy of that. Viserys was dead. That was what the letter said, hanged from a brothel. When he read about the way in which his brother had been killed, the King knew for sure that it was no simple work of some sellswords or that kind. There were killings in the Pearl House before Rhaegar knew, the Braavosi men fighting and killing for the Black Pearl but this was not the one as that. Knowing his brother the King knew that he would've sought after the bed of the Black Pearl. His brother always had a thirst for claiming exotic beauties. He even asked him to give Ashara Dayne to him but Rhaegar had other plans for the Fallen Star before sending her to the depths of earth. And with a chance to get one of the most popular woman in his bed Viserys would never have missed that chance.

But no one would ever dare touch a Prince of the Seven Kingdoms let alone a Targaryen Prince even in the Free Cities. True that the Valyrians were not so loved in the Free Cities with their constant fights against the Grand Maesters of the Free Cities and their acts of slavery. But that was in the past and even if they'd had any problems with them they were not so brave enough to put their hands on a Dragon.

Hanged from the Pearl House. His brother would've died a slow but a sure death. And that troubled Rhaegar. Killing Viserys is one thing but hanging him from a brothel is another. It's not that Viserys had no enemies. His brother had a rare talent to make enemies rather than friends. If it had been someone with a personal problem with Viserys there was no chance for him to make it so public as this. He would've managed to hide Viserys' corpse as he managed to do with his guards' corpses. Rhaegar knew his brother was a thickhead who would use his mouth over that of his brain but even Viserys was not so stupid as to wander the Free City of Braavos without a guard. Hiding the dead bodies of his brother's guards but choosing to show the death of a Westerosi Prince in public, that was not a work done over some petty quarrel or a work done by some ordinary man. Doing that would make no sense unless the assassin wanted everyone to see it.

Yet no good will come from by showing Viserys' death in public, unless it was a threatening to them by someone who never liked their friendship with the Iron Bank or someone else who did the deed for entirely different purpose, Rhaegar never knew. He looked at his Small Council, all confused and afraid about the news with even the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Ser Gerold Hightower unease at the news.

"This is madness," Lord Baelish spoke out. "It should've been the work of the Baratheons or the Arryns or the Tullys or the Lannisters. Only they have problems with us to do this."

"No it couldn't be," Jon spoke out with a certainty in his voice. "Even if they have their problems, Arryn is too high in his honor to do a thing like this. And Robert... Viserys is nothing to Robert. He wouldn't have gone all the way to Braavos just for Viserys alone."

The council members nodded. Rhaegar could see all of their faces screwed in thinking and he wished to hear out all of their thoughts.

"What about Lord Tywin Lannister," the Master of the Coin was still unsatisfied. "Every men, women and children in the Seven Kingdoms know about the ruthlessness and power of the Old Lion. And only Tywin Lannister proudly displays his accomplishments for the others to see."

Rhaegar quickly caught the idea. He knew where Petyr Baelish was coming with his words. The display of Viserys' death that made sense if it was indeed Tywin Lannister's doing. He never forgot the rage in Lord Tywin's eyes when his father shamed him publicly in the court. He had known everything that had happened to Houses Reyne and Tarbeck. Both the Houses were entirely vanished from existence by the work of Tywin Lannister. And Lord Tywin chose to proudly announce it by a song, 'The Rains of Castamere.' So he wasn't out of option in somehow being associated with the death of Viserys and the public display of Viserys' death seemed only to strengthen the fact. The King knew that the Lion was never close with the Dragons ever since his father denied Lord Tywin's proposal for a marriage between Rhaegar and his daughter and when Rhaegar himself shunned his daughter again for the second time it brought their old little friendship to the end. Though the Lion was old Rhaegar knew for sure that it still had its claws sharp and ready.

"It is perfectly possible," Lord Tyrell agreed with Littlefinger. "Tywin Lannister is one of the richest man in Westeros and it is perfectly possible for him to arrange an assassin or a sellsword to do this dirty work."

The Hand of the King shook his head from his left. He placed his hands on to the table and leaned forward from his chair. "What good would come for Lord Tywin with the death of Prince Viserys, that too doing it by spending a hefty amount. Even assassins and sellswords think twice and more before engaging with high lords and nobles let alone the Prince of the Seven Kingdoms. To pay for the death of a Prince of the Seven Kingdoms it should've cost Lord Tywin a fortune."

Rhaegar found that his Hand had a point. Tywin Lannister had his problems with the Targaryens, but not with Viserys. And spending such a huge amount on the death of his brother didn't felt as the Old Lion's way. Lord Tywin would go to the ends of the world only if it was good for something. And Viserys' death does no good to the Warden of the West. If it had been an attack on him or Lyanna or one of their children Rhaegar would've doubted no one else but Lord Tywin. He had his reasons to do that. But doing this by spending such a hefty amount just for the sake of Viserys' death which would definitely bring no good for Lord Tywin and Rhaegar had troubles in believing that it was Lord Tywin's work. Unless, the Old Lion meant it as a threat. But even so it didn't made any sense as for why would Lord Tywin choose the brothel?

The Small Council chamber was silent as the death itself. The King looked at all of his council members' face. From the drowsy look on the grim face of Jon Connington to the freshly powdered plump face of Varys. They were all confused and afraid of what might happen next. But Rhaegar wasn't afraid. He was the King of the Seven Kingdoms and a Dragon and the Dragon fears nothing.

"Lord Varys," his voice was firm and strong, not the one he uses to sing his songs. "What news do we have about Robert and his friends."

The Eunuch rubbed his powdered hands and hid them in the sleeves of his lavender robes. "I'm afraid that we have nothing new, Your Grace," he said in a voice as quiet as his slippers. "The last we've heard of them was the marriage of Lord Robert's son and Lord Jon Arryn's daughter. But it is yet to happen. And there is no word of some new voyages of them to Braavos as well."

So they don't have any involvement in this. The gods be damned... I just got a new problem when everything was going fine, Rhaegar thought. He has enough problems within his realm and now another one comes from Braavos. He brushed the terrible thoughts away and focused on the works needed to be done. He shall worry about his brother later. And by no means that he was to leave this thing go unnoticed. The thing which happened to Viserys may very well follow up to the rest of his family. But now that is not all the news the raven brought from Braavos.

The letter also mentioned about the final stages of their deal for the loan from the Iron Bank which was incomplete. Tycho Nestoris had mentioned full and well about how the deal was incomplete with Viserys' death and how the loan won't be provided for them until someone else finishes the thing which Viserys couldn't. The fact that their contract with the Iron Bank was not yet fulfilled added onto the trouble Rhaegar was having with his brother's death. The crown on his head felt heavy and a weight on his head. Rhaegar took the conqueror crown from his head and placed in neatly before him on the table.

"As you all know it," Rhaegar Targaryen brought the attention of his small council back to him. "The letter not only brought the news about my brother's death but also about the contract between the Iron Throne and the Iron Bank of Braavos."

When all of the lords' attentions were turned to him he continued. "It seems that Viserys was killed before he could finish his work," the King took the letter and threw it at the middle of the table where it laid, touched by no one since everyone was aware of what is going to come. "That means someone has to go to Braavos to get the job done."

There was a series of hushed voices in the small council chambers. Rhaegar looked to his lords speaking to themselves in hushed tones.

"Your Grace," Lord Jon Connington said after a moment. "With your word I shall go to Braavos to finish the contract and seal the friendship between the Iron Throne and the Iron Bank of Braavos."

At first Rhaegar was tempted to agree to it and send Jon Connington to Braavos. Jon was his trusted friend and a loyal servant. Sending him to Braavos would have the work done sooner than he'd thought. He thought as if he'd made a mistake by sending Viserys in the first place. If he'd sent Jon in the place of Viserys, it would've been the Lord Hand returning to Westeros victorious unlike Viserys who was coming back as a corpse. But then Rhaegar decided against it.

"The Hand of the King belongs in King's Landing, Lord Jon," Rhaegar said looking at his Hand. "You're needed here if the need arises to act in the King's stead."

The Lords of the Small Council nodded at his word.

"Your Grace," Lord Baelish announced. "Let me go to Braavos then to make the things right and secure the contract of the Iron Throne with the Iron Bank as it is truthfully my work as the Master of Coin."

Rhaegar looked at the slimy smirk of Littlefinger and couldn't understand what the man was truly thinking at. Of all his lords he trusted Littlefinger the least. Everyone of his lords in the Small Council owed their loyalty to him except Petyr Baelish. Littlefinger's loyalty was only to Littlefinger and it is good for you to realise it as quickly as you could. But still Littlefinger was useful in his own way.

"Won't the preperations for the Crown Prince's marriage come under your work, my lord?" Rhaegar asked. Littlefinger nodded and bowed his head with a lazy smirk on his lips.

After a moment of silence Rhaegar stood from his seat. The council members looked up at him waiting to hear his decision. "I intend to go to Braavos myself to finish my brother's work," said the King and the council members were shocked at his decision and Rhaegar could see it in their faces.

"Your Grace is it wise for you to go now, especially with your brother's death?" Lord Varys asked.

"Do you have anyone else in your mind to take up this responsibility, Lord Varys?" Rhaegar asked harshly. When the eunuch shook his head he finished the meeting. "Very well then," he said donning his crown. Rhaegar had sent his brother to Braavos to show his gratitude and respect and now his brother was dead. And the man who killed him should be walking happily in Braavos. This wasn't only about the contract, this was about the Dragons. And only a Dragon should deal with a Dragon's problem not some lesser men. He would go to Braavos and find out the seed from which this new tree had grown up and when he does that the block would burn just like all the other trees which'd blocked him before.

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 _ **Author's Notes:**_ Another update guys. Oh, I have to mention, from here this is going to be a real roller-coaster ride. Always love to hear your thoughts so leave a reviews. Good Day and thank you guys for reading the story.


	11. Chapter 11

**_Daenerys_**

The ship was a deep wooden blur amidst the gleaming waters of the Blackwater Bay. The sun was scorching hot up in the sky and the restless sea shimmered in the light of the sun as if it was a looking glass. The wind blowed against her with sprinkles of water and a hint of saltiness in them and Daenerys Targaryen settled her blowing silver blond hair back in its place. The ship gradually neared them, its size growing big and clear with every passing second as the ship made its way towards the shores of King's Landing. The ship carrying her brother's body.

It was funny to her with this entire thing for her family waiting for her brother's corpse. King's Landing, the place where they were standing is the very place where Aegon the Conqueror had landed three hundred years before and went on to conquer the Seven Kingdoms. And this place where he landed was called King's Landing by the people ever since. But now they were waiting for the dead body of her brother to land here. Maybe they would call it as 'Prince's Pyre' hereafter. Only Viserys would not be cremated here, his body will be cremated by the tradition of their Valyrian ancestors and then his ashes would be interred in the Great Sept of Baelor just like the ashes of their forefathers had been interred before him from the times of Aegon the Conqueror.

They had been here from the morning, reaching the shores of the Blackwater Bay just as the word came that the ship which was carrying her brother's body was sighted. Daenerys had never truly believed that her brother was killed when Rhaegar told her about the raven from Braavos. No one dared to touch a dragon, no one. Yet someone touched and worse, killed a dragon hanging him from a brothel. Viserys was always inclined towards the women and it was a certain fitting irony that he was killed in a brothel, using the brothel. There were times when she had thought about Viserys to be gone for good. Still he was her brother and she would make sure that her brother would be avenged with Fire And Blood.

The ship was still a good long distance away from the shore and Dany thought that it would take some more time for them to reach the shores of King's Landing. The sea shore was mostly filled with the people of King's Landing which amazed her after remembering the day when Viserys sailed for Braavos. There had been no one to see him leaving for Braavos except their family, guards and the court who were standing to receive him back to King's Landing. Except for them there had been only a few others from the smallfolk of King's Landing to see him sail to Braavos. But Dany doubted that they came to see her brother or her family that day. She was pretty sure that they came to see the Braavosi banker. Now looking around the good number of people gathered here to welcome her brother's body she found how exalted they were to find out that Viserys was dead. King's Landing never loved the Targaryens as they'd loved them once, Dany knew that but she also knew that they never needed love.

Dany looked at Drogon flying with his brothers in the sky and felt how free and independent the creature was. Drogon never had the love of the people yet he had the fear of them towards him. And the Targaryens needed only that fear and they had them in a vast range. All of these people standing here would go rushing back, covering and shivering to their homes if Drogon came back from the sky to land here. At the first thought Dany was inclined to do that but she decided to go against it so that her brother could get a quiet and peaceful funeral.

Daenerys Targaryen didn't needed her dragon always to prove what she truly was to the people. She was Daenerys "Stormborn" Targaryen, hailed from the ancient Valyrian line, Blood of Aegon the Conqueror and Maegor the Cruel. It only took one look for her to send even the strongest of the men searching for cover. And it would take only one word for her to turn the man who killed her brother into nothing but a puff of ash.

Dany had already asked about it to Rhaegar so that she could go to Braavos on the back of Drogon and return with the ash of Viserys' killer so that his ash could be thrown in the sea before her brother's remains was interred. But her brother had strictly prohibited her from doing so saying that he needed his dragon heads to be safe and sound and prepared for the long night. Dany should have objected that and flew over to Braavos to bring Fire and Blood to her brother's killer but she had listened to Rhaegar and stayed here, now waiting for her brother's corpse to arrive.

The sea seemed quiet and calm with gentle waves lapping at the shores. But Dany knew it was not so calm as it looked to be. Until Viserys' killer was brought to justice there won't be any peace for them. The dragons were restless in the sky too always roaring and screaming. All three of them rearing and hissing at each other. Her nephews both came as soon as Rhaegar sent the word of Viserys' death to them. Aegon came from Dragonstone and Jaeherys from the north. It was a difficult journey for a man but not for a dragon. A dragon could cover long distances so soon and without much rest.

Dany still remembered the day the dragons born, the day she brought them back to this world from stones. The day she walked into the pyre made for the Red Priestess' ritual with the stone eggs in her hands only to emerge again unscathed and with dragons in her arms rather than the stone eggs. That was the day the world found who she really was, the Mother of the Dragons. Now looking at them all grown up huge and mighty, restless and fearless Dany found a certain proud settling deep in her heart.

The ship neared so swiftly that Dany could make out the name written on the hull in green. 'Sea Dragon' the name was written on both sides of the hull of the ship, big enough to make it out even from a certain distance away. Dany could see the slender ship making its way towards the shores of King's Landing swiftly, it's long oars pushing and splashing the water back all in the same time, gradually and constantly. It was flanked by two more ships which were smaller than the Sea Dragon but still kept up with the speed of it.

Dany moved up with her family when the Sea Dragon stopped at a fair distance away from the shores of the Blackwater Bay. She stood next to Aegon with Rhaegar to Aegon's left and then Lyanna to Rhaegar's left and then Jaeherys next to her good sister. The Royal family was flanked by the Lord commander of the Kingsguard, Ser Gerald Hightown and Ser Barristan Selmy with Ser Jaime Lannister and Ser Daemon Sand behind them. The other three members of the Kingsguard, Ser Oswell Whent, Ser Lewyn Martell and Ser Jonothor Darry took their places along the perimeter, between the people and the Royal family. Fifty Targaryen guards were given under their command to divide the commoners away from the nobles and the remaining guards trailed the members of the court in two neat columns.

A boat set off from the Sea Dragon and another two followed it. Dany could identify that the first big boat had her brother's body with the lack of men in it. The other two boats included the crew of the Sea Dragons and her brother's guards who managed to get back to Westeros alive.

The High Priest looked radiant in his white robes chased with the cloth of gold. His crystal crown absorbed the sunlight and emitted it back as a dozen rainbows. The High Septon was an old man with a bald head and a wrinkled face. His highly fashioned clothes of gold and silver seemed to press him down with their weight. He moved up in front of the Royal family to receive the body of Viserys in the Gods' name.

The boat which had her brother's body reached the shore and Dany could see the white bundle in the middle which was her brother. The men from the other boats moved to take out her brother's body and placed it infront of them. Viserys' body was covered in a white cloth that it gave no hint of the corpse beneath it. Though the stench gave away what the cloth hid.

The High Septon moved around her brother's body with a metal censer suspended from chains, in which incense was burned to keep the smell of death away. The High Septon moved around Viserys saying his prayers before the others could see the Prince's body. The old man finished his prayers and stepped back for the Royal family to pay their respects. Dany moved with her brother and his family and reached Viserys' body.

Rhaegar opened the cloth which covered Viserys' body and Dany saw the terrible state her brother was in. His face was beaten and broken beyond recognition. His lower face was a mess, his mouth bashed in, with teeth and bones jutting out where once his perfect teeth and proud lips opened in a smile which quickened the hearts of the maidens. The noose which squeezed the life out of him had left it's mark, dark and purple around his neck. He looked pale and cold. His skin and flesh started to slough and Dany saw that her brother's body was in the worst shape possible. It was clear that he didn't even had the time for mourning. Perhaps she was right, they will call it as the Prince's Pyre hereafter as this is the place Viserys will be mourned and burned.

Aegon forced his usual facade trying hard not to wrinkle his nose as befits the Crown Prince but Jaeherys and his mother wrinkled at the smell of decay coming from her brother. Rhaegar looked at their brother for a moment then backed up giving way for the others to pay their respects and for their mourning. Dany and the other members of the Royal Family followed the King and the members of the court and the lesser Lords from the Crownlands made their way up to mourn the prince.

Dany noticed the people around, their faces all smiles and glee even though half of them looked as though they would die of hunger this night or the next. There was happiness in their faces not the fear of the dragons standing before them. Dany found her temper getting better of her as she saw the smug satisfied faces of the people. No one dares to smile at the dragon, yet they did. Let them smile, she thought. All their smiles would die with the death of the one who brought these smiles to their faces. Viserys' killer.

When everyone was done the men set up the pyre for her brother. They placed him gingerly on the pyre along with the wooden bier as they couldn't take his corpse alone without making a mess. Rhaegar set up the fire and Dany watched her brother burn in the fire. Fire couldn't kill a dragon, she thought, but even the dead dragons burned.

When the fires died out the remains of Viserys was collected in a golden urn so that they could be interred under the Great Sept of Baelor with their ancestors. The journey back to the Red Keep was a silent and sombre affair. The King was quiet as death on his stallion and no one dared to disturb him. Dany rode her silver mare, looking at her family, everyone experiencing a loss for the first time.

When they reached the Red Keep, the King called his family to his solar. Rhaegar led all of them to his solar and ordered the Old Bull and Ser Barristan to stand guard at the door. Dany noticed at all their faces as they took their seat, confusion and loss covered everyone of their faces. There room was filled with silence until Rhaegar broke it.

"The gods be damned," Rhaegar cursed and Dany knew exactly why her brother cursed the gods. Viserys got a terrible death and a worser end than that. She could never believe that anyone could experience a worser end than this. And a death like that to a Targaryen Prince is the worst thing of all. All the fear the people had for them just turned to a mockery infront of their eyes and it would not stop with it, Dany knew.

"Did you see him?" Dany asked looking all the faces in the room. "He is... was completely destroyed."

Rhaegar nodded. "This is getting worser and worser. This is pure rage. A normal killer won't do this. This is someone who we aren't aware of, someone who we haven't taken into account."

Dany lifted her head at her brother. "Let me go and see who is that then? It would take only one word for me and I shall return with that someone's remains."

Rhaegar gave a look at her which told her everything even before he voiced them. "You're not going. I will go to Braavos and right all the wrongs done to Viserys." He paused for a moment. "And when I find him... He'll get a lot worser than what he'd done to Viserys."

Dany looked at her brother and saw the fire in his eyes. The Dragon in him had woken. Viserys would get his justice in Fire and Blood and even if Rhaegar failed she would make sure of it.

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 _ **Author's Notes:**_ Hey guys, another chapter so soon. Don't know why I did it but I felt like it and I'm happy for it.

 _ **Replies to the Guest**_ _ **Reviews:**_

To **Guest** on Chapter 1,4 and 5: Chap-1:Oh really, have you ever wondered why Brandon did that thing you speak of? He didn't just wanted to see if he was better than Rhaegar of course. His sister was presumed kidnapped and I don't blame him for doing that because that shows how much he cared for Lyanna to come search for her despite his marriage while she obviously cared nothing for him or his marriage.

And could you just tell about these intercepted messages you speak of because as far as I know there has been no such thing, not even a mention of one. Lyanna hid well with Rhaegar that the whole realm believed her to be kidnapped and kept against her will. Now if there was any intercepted messages, they would've known for sure. But sorry none was there in that matter. Ned was there with Lyanna in TOJ. If she ever had a letter sent for them she would've definitely asked about it but no. She never asks and Ned never mentions or thinks about some letter.

LOL. I read the last line of your review in the first chapter and I can't stop laughing. No offence but do you remember the chapter of Ned in books where Ned and Robert share a breakfast during the Hand's tourney. Chapter 30, If I am correct. There is a thought of Ned when he thinks about what would happen if he told the truth about Jon Arryn's death. I suppose this was his thought: 'This was the boy he had grown up with, he thought; this was the Robert Baratheon he'd known and loved. If he could prove that the Lannisters were behind the attack on Bran, prove that they had murdered Jon Arryn, this man would listen. Then Cersei would fall, and the Kingslayer with her, and if Lord Tywin dared to rouse the west, Robert would smash him as he had smashed Rhaegar Targaryen on the Trident. He could see it all so clearly.' Now Tywin Lannister is the last man Ned loves and he clearly compares Tywin to Rhaegar. Ned is not the kind of a man who would compare someone to Tywin but here he compares Tywin to Rhaegar. Seriously, you think that Ned never hated Rhaegar, then you should believe that Ned never hated Tywin as well. After all he places both of them in the same place.

For the review on chap-4: Yes he should be, but he wasn't and its his mistake.

For the review on chap-5: Why should Lyanna give Robert a chance? Alright, how come Lyanna knew about Robert's bastard? From some kitchen maid's mouth? Oh, she would believe some servants gossip but won't talk to her betrothed about it. Very nice. Everyone needs a chance to prove themselves. Catelyn wanted Brandon, not Ned but she gives him a chance and look how that works out. To brand someone under a part before even giving him a chance or getting to know about him or to even without talking to him is so stupid and a work of a nitwit. If Lyanna had come to the conclusion that Robert will never keep to one bed after she had given a chance for him, after she had tried changing him, I would have accepted that. But without doing any of that and coming to that conclusion really show her stupidity and selfishness. Anyway about keeping to one bed(Lyanna's words) didn't Rhaegar already has a marriage bed made up for him. So by her morality shouldn't she have sent him back to his wife's bed rather than eloping with him? What say you? Or was her fidelity speech only applicable in her case and not Elia's? So, her husband should stay to her bed while she would help other women's husbands stray away from them, is that what you're trying to say?

And that was exactly my claim as well. She chose her well-being over that of her family, over that of Brandon and Ned and everyone who died in the bloody war. She chose her well-being over that of everyone else' and hence stayed in that bloody tower.


	12. Chapter 12

_**Andrew**_

He woke up in the dark, breathing heavily, gasping for air. The fires in his chambers had died out and the candles had reduced to a solid puddle of wax in the stand. From the dark around him Andrew could say that it was still very early in the morning. Time in which the birds would rise up from their nests. He sat up on his bed and moved the covers back pushing his hand through his black hair which blended easily with the darkness in the room. Everyday he would go to sleep with the covers on to protect him from the cold only to wake up sweating in the early morning. Thanks to his dreams which did the deed without fail.

Even after he had killed Viserys the dreams just continued to trouble him. He had made the death of the Mad Dragon as a slow and a terrible one. Hanging from a brothel he was very much welcomed to fuck all the women he needs with his dead cock. Yet now his dreams were worser than the ones before. He saw the blood and gore and mess as usual but everytime in the end he would see his mother just like he'd seen her for the last time, standing in the waters of the Torentine with that sweet smile of hers, shining in the starlight with tears in her beautiful face and the dark hair, the same one that he had, blowing in the night wind. He remembered for sure that he had seen no one else with his mother that day. But now Viserys stood behind his mother in his dreams. He looked the exact same way he had left him hanging in the Pearl House. He was pale as death and the only thing remained of his lower face was just the mess he'd made of it. His flesh was sloughing in most of his body and his hands were white. They looked as though they were some kind of bird's claws. When the Torentine would take Andrew away from his mother, Viserys would make his way towards his mother. Andrew would shout with all his might at his mother yet she couldn't hear his shouts. Viserys would grab his mother with his claws tight around her neck, the sharp claws sinking deep enough to draw blood. And then his tongue would come out of his mouth, all white and slimy to lick the blood he brought from his mother's neck. Andrew always tries to jump off from the boat and to go save his mother but no matter how hard he tries he could never get off of the boat. The Torentine would take him far away from his mother but still he could clearly see Viserys' claws tightening around his mother's neck.

It felt for Andrew that he himself had sent the Mad Dragon to his mother. But then he realised that there was no way for a monster like Viserys to be in the same place where his mother would be. Viserys would be burning in the deepest pit of the Hell but his mother won't be there. Not his mother, who was sweet and noble and kind and beautiful. She would be a world away from Viserys, with his father and uncle around to protect her. Maybe the dreams were just helping him to remember the things he needs to do, he never knew. It definitely helped a lot. It was the dreams which helped him to remember who he was, which pushed him to do what he was doing now. If it wasn't for those dreams even inside his deep heart he would have completely changed into Andrew Snow. He would've turned into the mask he was wearing to hide his identity. But still this dream troubled him as though if it meant something.

He got off his bed and moved over to the window. The canal which ran near the inn looked nothing but a stream of flowing ink. A man rowed his boat upstream in it, starting his day with the work. The eastern horizon was a pinkish red which indicated the rising sun. Andrew sighed and went on to start his day with a refreshing bath.

When he was done with the bath he moved over to his wardrobe and picked up fresh clothes to wear. He wore a brown sleeveless jacket and the white tunic shirt with the sleeves folded up to the level of his elbows. A burgundy pant completed his clothing and Andrew styled his wet hair in the way he preferred, slicking it back from the front to the back. Frost laid on the table. Andrew thought to take the sword at first but then he decided to go without it since the Sealord of Braavos became alert enough to increase the patrol after the death of the Prince of the Seven Kingdoms.

He made his way down to the Foghouse and found that the inn was filled with a good number of people despite the time being the early hours of the morning. Most of them looked like the guards of the Sealord of Braavos or the Iron Bank or the other nobles in Braavos along with sellswords and some others looked like sailors or workers of some kind. Andrew got down to the inn and found the girls going on with their works in a quick at the same time a comfortable pace. He came against Sarrera and the girl gave him a wide smile which easily brought a smile from Andrew's lips too. Sarrera offered him a tankard of strong beer she had in her tray but Andrew turned it down knowing that she would've taken it for someone else.

He reached Illola's desk and took his seat in a chair. Illola sat on the opposite looking at the notes, going through the papers. "What's with the crowd?" Andrew asked turning back to look at the crowd in the Foghouse. He knew that it was very unlikely for such a crowd to come to an inn in the early morning here in Braavos. Still even that was good, a good crowd is best for business at any time.

"Something is going on," Illola looked up from the note. "Even the Sealord came here to the Harbor to check on something. The Harbor is filled with the guards and workers."

Andrew looked around the inn, looking at them it seemed as though they were there for some kind of work. Most of them were guards of the nobles of Braavos and with the arrival of the Sealord of Braavos to the Ragman Harbor it was not a surprise for him that most of the nobles would have followed him here as well. He then turned to Illola and took a neatly arranged column of coins. He turned them over in his hand before placing them back one by one arranging them in the order they were before. Twenty coins made up the column, twenty Braavosi iron squares.

Ivanna brought him his breakfast with a big smile on her face that even challenged the one her sister gave him. Andrew smiled back at her and ruffled her hair when she came near him. A big chunk of bread with two boiled eggs and a few crisp fried thin sardines filled up his plate with a tankard of black beer to wash them down. Andrew took a sip of his black beer first, the drink was so strong that it made his eyes crinkle. And the strong drink helped him to get rid of the tiredness and sleepiness.

"So these are the ones who hadn't paid the money," Illola said pushing a paper towards him.

Andrew took a bite from his bread and moved the paper near him with his left hand. He took the paper and skimmed over it. The list only had some five or six names. So the work would be easy enough, thought Andrew. He could finish it within a short time and then he could get ready for his destiny.

Andrew knew that he was far away from getting the justice for his family's murders. And he would never get that with the death of Viserys Targaryen alone. Viserys Targaryen was just the spark to the start of an explosion. He hanged the Mad Dragon from the brothel not only to avenge his mother's death and sufferings but also that he could avenge his entire family to get the justice for their murders. And he would get that only when he sends the entire Targaryen family to Hell just like he had sent Viserys. He had believed that Rhaegar or someone else would come here to follow Viserys to the Hell but no one came. Maybe they would come and until then he would be waiting for the time to come.

Andrew kept the paper down and continued to eat his food. He took a sardine with a bite of bread and washed it down with a drink of black beer. The drink and the hot food filled up his stomach and he felt better without the tiredness. When he finished his breakfast Illola collected his plate and tankard.

"There is one more who owe us money," Illola said as she took the used plate and tankard. "But he lives here in the Ragman Harbor. So I could get it back from him."

Andrew shook his head as he took the paper. "I would get it from him as I go by," he told her. "Who is that?"

Illola sighed and looked at him. "Lasagnio, the Fisherman." Andrew knew the man. He nodded and started to make his way out to collect the money.

"Andrew." He was at the door when someone called him from the inn. Andrew turned towards the direction from where the voice came and found Ballos Aenon coming towards him with his ale in his hands. "Going out somewhere?" Ballos asked him with a smile as he took a deep drink of his ale.

"Just taking care of business, Aenon," Andrew replied. Ballos finished his remaining ale with one strong gulp and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Ah...that means you are going out," Ballos gave a hearty laugh and threw his tankard away. The tankard bounced off the nearby bench and took three more bounces on the floor before landing in the centre of the room.

Andrew just watched the tankard and then returned his gaze to Ballos. Ballos immediately understood what his look meant as he apologised immediately for it. "Sorry about that."

"Next time don't do that," Andrew replied and made his way out of the Foghouse. Ballos came up beside him.

"So where are you going now?" Ballos asked as they started to walk to the Ragman Harbor.

"Told you, Taking care of business," Andrew replied looking around through the fogs. "What were you doing in the inn now?"

Ballos laughed at that. "Not supposed to be there," he said laughing. "But Tycho came here for sightseeing and there were enough guards around here to protect him."

Andrew nodded, his legs taking the steps with a certain ease. "What is happening in Ragman Harbor? Illola said that something was going on that even the Sealord came to visit."

"Mmm," Ballos nodded his head. "You know about the death of the Prince of the Seven Kingdoms, right?"

Andrew nodded, thinking that it was him who did the deed for good. But he knew better than to voice that. Ballos was a good man and a trustworthy friend but Andrew didn't wanted to throw away his secret just like that. He was better off as Andrew Snow here. Andrew Stark doesn't belong here.

"The entire Braavos was troubled with that. So they are just increasing the patrols and doing some things for safety," said Ballos Aenen.

Foghouse Inn wasn't very far from the Ragman Harbor and so they reached it soon enough. Once he reached the Ragman Harbor Andrew found that Illola had been right when he saw the Harbor filled with the noblemen of Braavos and their guards. It was easy for him to make out the nobles from the commoners. They were mostly stocky and were clad in rich fashioned clothes and jewels. There were ten guards for every noble standing there.

"Do they really need to do all this for a dead man?" He asked to Ballos looking around the men going on with their works.

Ballos laughed at that. "It's not for the dead man," he said laughing. "It's for the King of the Seven Kingdoms."

Andrew turned his head immediately to look at Ballos. His face must've shown his shock and confusion.

"He is coming here," Ballos clarified his doubts and went on his way. Andrew just stood there for a moment thinking what he'd heard just now. His bait had worked and Rhaegar Targaryen himself was coming here. He would never miss this chance and soon Viserys would get a company in Hell.

A smile appeared on Andrew Stark's lips without his knowledge, knowing that he had got his chance to end the Targaryen line once and for all and to avenge his family.

* * *

 _ **Author's Notes:**_ Hey guys, another chapter. Hope you like it. As always review the chapter and say what you thought about the story.

 ** _Replies to Guests:_** To Guest from last chapter: Thanks for the comments mate. I'm glad that you like this. I hope you'll enjoy the story.

To the 2nd Guest: Thanks for the review pal. Hope you'll continue your support.


	13. Chapter 13

**_Robert_**

The town smelled of salt, the same as the Bay of Crabs to the east, shimmering green and blue in the morning sun. The ship which had brought them here, Fury swayed in the waters, docked in the port of the Saltpans. The ship was bigger that it couldn't take them further upriver in the Trident and so they needed to dock her here. Looking at his men unloading the things and horses down from the ship Robert thought as if he had made a wrong decision by choosing the war galley Fury for this voyage. With three hundred oars, three decks and three huge masts with the one in the middle towering over the ones on the sides, the flagship of the Baratheon fleet seemed the perfect choice for this voyage. The deck above her oars was covered completely with scorpions. Topside she had catapults mounted fore and aft. Fury was formidable and swift and that's why his brother Stannis had chosen the war galley especially for this voyage. In the place of her usual golden colored sails with the crowned stag of House Baratheon painted on them there were plain white sails used by the commoners and merchants as to never really attract any eyes of the others. A slender ship would've taken them straight to Riverrun by the Trident and would've saved a good time for them, but then a slender ship couldn't have brought all these men and the horses for their journey by land.

The Lord of Storm's End wasn't a man of patience. So when the men finished unloading their things Robert started their journey to Riverrun without wasting any time. Cersei had to say something about his decision but Robert was not ready to hear it. His wife muttered some curses under her breath until the children got to her. He knew they all were tired but still they had to do it. The sea had already stolen a good amount of time away from them and he wasn't ready to do it with the land too.

Saltpans was a small town truly. A small castle dominated the town; no more than a holdfast, really, a single tall square keep with a bailey and a curtain wall. Most of the shops and inns and alehouses around the harbor were filled with a good number of people. The crew and the servants of the ships which were already docked in the Port before Fury brought them here, thought Robert looking at the men laughing and singing in the inns and alehouses. Most of the buildings looked inhabited but some of the buildings here and there stood half broken and burnt. The folks of Saltpans looked at their big party with curious eyes but the sights of noble Lords were not so rare in ports, so their curiousness died as quickly as they started to mount their horses with their banners streaming in the sea breeze.

They began their journey north along the Trident. The river was only an accustomed channel here, not the true mighty one he'd seen with Ned when they had come down from the Eyrie to see the Grand Tourney of Harrenhal. Robert could remember the time even now after all those terrible things that had started from there. He could remember the journey down from the Eyrie with Ned. Gods, they had a good time in that journey away from Jon's eyes. He could remember the first time he had seen Lyanna, the memory had enlightened him too much once but now it had turned sour. He could remember the Tourney alive with knights from throughout the Seven Kingdoms. He remembered his drinking competition with Richard Lonmouth. He remembered the seven sided melee in which he won by unhorsing most of his competitors. He had never felt so alive than being in a fight and it came to him naturally. He remembered Rhaegar unhorsing people left and right just like he'd done in the melee. He had been jesting with Jon and the Old Lord Eon Hunter when Rhaegar destroyed the entire thing by crowing Lyanna as his Queen of Love and Beauty and in turn shaming his wife and Houses Stark and Baratheon. Robert had wanted nothing more than to knock him down from the horse and beat him bloody, the Gods knew he had wanted to do that so badly. Yet both Jon and Ned's face stopped him from doing so. Manners, Jon had taught him that and he had somehow held his smiling composure and brushed off his insult with a jest, as gently as he could. But Robert knew he may get the chance again. He will avenge Ned's death no matter what. And if he was to die in the attempt he would die gladly, but no matter what he would drag Rhaegar all the way to hell along with him before ripping his heart out and drinking from his skull with the stranger himself.

The river began to widen out as they moved further towards the land away from the Bay of Crabs. They kept their journey along the banks of the Trident. They stayed close to the water, passing fields and farms riding hard and fast in their way. The sounds made by the hooves of the horses even reminded him of Ned, the rides they would have when they were still some young adventurous boys. They never had any secrets between them(except Ned's romance with Ashara Dayne back at Harrenhal). In another life they would've been brothers bound by blood or they would have even shared a grandchild in the future, if Ned and his family had been alive or at least his son alone. Robert could remember the boy just like he had remembered Ned. It had been too easy for him to remember the little boy who looked so much like his childhood friend but with his mother's dark hair. Ned's son had been so afraid to meet him for the first time that he chose to hide behind his mother at every chance that at last Ned had to pick him up and introduce him to them all by himself. But as time passed by the children grew normal with each other and enjoyed each others' company to the fullest. Watching them play they had thought that both their sons would become friends like they'd been along with Jon's son and that their children would succeed where they had failed, binding their houses together by blood. Andrew and Argella had been as perfect as they had thought them to be and the filthy Dragonspawn managed to mess up that as well.

Robert always wondered about Ned's son, about what had happened to him or what cruelties the Targaryens might've inflicted upon the little boy. He couldn't really think about it. Rhaegar never even gave their bodies back for a proper funeral they deserved. No one deserves an end like that. Maybe he would make Rhaegar's end just like that. He would leave him there alive on the battlefield, cutting off his hands and legs and then leaving him for the crows and dogs to do the rest.

The journey was by far a pleasant one without much troubles. The sun was well and warm. The air was light and heavy with the scent of flowers, and the woods here had a gentle beauty unlike the evergreen rainforests in the Stormlands. They saw some pole boats passing through the waters of the Trident. By midday the party of the stormlanders reduced their pace and continued their trip for sometime before stopping for their meal.

They had brought a good amount of supplies for this journey as they weren't sure of how long this was going to take. They dined on rich ham and seared trout with bread and hard cheese. The desserts were too rich for his like. Cersei had ordered to bring different types of cakes along with fruits like melons and peaches just for Argella, since their daughter always had a big love for sweets. When they finished their meal they wasted no time before getting on their horses and continuing their journey.

With every passing day their supplies started to grow down. By the fourth day their food ran out and they had to hunt for their food. Robert enjoyed every minute of the hunt along with his son and Lords. They brought down an aurochs on the first day of their hunt and it had managed to serve as their food for the entire day.

By the fifth day they had gained a good distance from their start off from Saltpans. The Trident grew wider and wider as they moved further north as it neared the ford from where the Trident split into its three different forks- The Red Fork, the Blue Fork and the Green Fork. Their initial plan was to meet up with Jon Arryn and the knights of the Vale in the crossroads inn and then making their journey together to Riverrun.

On the sixth day they came upon the Inn at the crossroads. It was near dark when they reached it, at the crossroads north of the great confluence of the Trident. Taking west from here, it was an easy ride down the River road to Riverrun. The eastern High road was wilder and more dangerous, climbing through rocky foothills and thick forests into the Mountains of the Moon, past high passes and deep chasms to the Vale of Arryn and the stony Fingers beyond. Robert had made that journey with Jon and Ned when they came for the Tourney of Harrenhal seventeen years before.

The inn was a sprawling three-story structure of pale stone, the biggest one in the Riverlands. Outside, the men were shouting and cursing as they were putting up tents and pavilions to spend the night while some of them unloaded the wagons. Horses were being taken to the stables. Robert found the familiar banners of the blue falcon of the Arryns, the black iron studs on a bronze field, bordered with runes, the banner of House Royce and the broken black wheel, on a green field which indicated the presence of the Waynwoods. He could also make out some of the other banners flowing in the evening air as well. Growing up in the Eyrie had made him somewhat closer to the Houses of the Vale. He could see the silver arrows of House Hunter and the three red hearts clutched by three ravens in a white field, the banner of House Corbray and a dozen more banners streamed from seperate poles as well. Jon must've brought most of his lords as well, Robert thought as he saw the crossroads filled with the shouts of men and the neighs of horses. He himself had brought most of his bannermen to his son's marriage. Even that was for good as well, so that they could grow up their friendship between their Kingdoms, not only between their families.

When Robert and his party finally came to stop in front of the Inn, he was greeted by a familiar voice he had known very well. "It's good to see you again, Lord Robert," Lord Yohn Royce said approaching him with a smile, a pair of guards with brown cloaks trailing him.

Robert gave him a wide smile as he dismounted his destrier and embraced the older man in a hug, greeting him. "It's good to see you too, Lord Royce," Robert said and he meant the every word he said. It was good to see the old friends back, always.

When the other lords and the men saw him they came to greet him at once. Robert greeted them back as well regaling some old jests which made the crossroads filled with the sounds of laughter. Stableboys came from the stables to see to their horses Once they were done with the greetings and welcomings Robert asked Lord Royce to take him to Jon Arryn. His men joined with the Valemen, helping them to put up the tents and Lord Yohn Royce led Robert and his family inside the inn.

They entered the common room and found his foster father, the man who had been like a father to him, Jon Arryn seated with Lords Hunter and Waynwood and the others surrounding him. He hasn't even changed a bit even though it had been quite a time since Robert had seen him. When Jon saw him, his foster father stood up at once. The years had done nothing to diminish his grace and ease. Jon Arryn, as great a lord as any the Eyrie had ever known, walked towards him, proudly and gracefully. When he reached him Robert couldn't help but to smile at him as if he was still the little boy who was sent to the Eyrie to foster with Lord Jon Arryn. His foster father gave a warm smile back at him and pulled him to a hug. Robert felt his strong arms around him just like the same way they had felt around him years before with only one difference. Back then Ned had been there to share Jon's hugs with him.

* * *

 _ **Author's Notes:**_ So the next chapter guys. The very first of the many, many awaiting reunions. Tell me about it in the comments. It means so much to me. I'll try to answer all of your comments. If I missed anything don't hesitate to give me a heads up.

 _ **Replies to Guest readers:**_ To Deathodreary: Thanks for the comments mate. I'm glad that you like this story. As for the answer for your question, well what can I say, Fate has a certain way of destroying plans, right. Let's wait and watch what plans it has for Andrew.


	14. Chapter 14

**_Doran_**

Let us begin," the prince commanded. He watched the dragonprince, Prince Aegon Targaryen, and the others who had come with him. He watched the Sand Snakes, each at a different table. He watched the lords and ladies, the serving men, the old blind seneschal, and the young maester Myles, with his silky beard and servile smile. Seated in his rolling chair on the dais of Sunspear's feast hall, he saw all of them. He may be weak but not stupid. All the rest had eyes only for the Crown prince and his party.

In the dais of the feast hall of Sunspear, Prince Doran Martell sat in his rolling chair between his daughter Arianne and his brother Oberyn with his sons next to his daughter and next to Oberyn was his brother's beloved paramour, Ellaria. A hundred scented candles perfumed the air. Gemstones glittered on the fingers of the lords and the girdles and hairnets of the ladies.

Prince Aegon Targaryen held a stern composure, the Prince of Dorne observed. This Aegon was not the true prince Aegon, Doran knew. He is not Elia's son. Yet he is his Prince now and his soon to be good son, the betrothed of his daughter Arianne.

Doran left it to Ricasso, his blind seneschal, to rise and propose the toast. "Lords and ladies, let us all now drink to Rhaegar, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, and Lord of the Seven Kingdoms."

Serving men had begun to move amongst the guests as the seneschal was speaking, filling cups from the flagons that they bore. The wine was Dornish strongwine, dark as blood and sweet as vengeance. But the Prince never drank any of it. He had his own wine, prepared by Maester Myles and well laced with poppy juice to ease the agony in his swollen joints.

Aegon Targaryen did drink, as was only courteous. His companions likewise. They were wary of being in here, thought Doran. Looking at Oberyn's hideous smirk the Prince thought that they were good to be so. One cannot just simply know what the Red Viper would do next. One moment he would be sharing a glass of dornish red with you and the next you would find yourself choking on the wine cup. Arianne was certainly having a time of her life, his daughter was clearly excited with the thought of being the future queen. Sunspear was filled with lords and ladies from most of Dorne. And it troubled the Prince even more. It would only take one of them to turn this entire feast into a bloodbath. Dorne was an angry and divided land, and his hold on it was not as firm as it might be. Many of his own lords thought him weak and would have welcomed open war with the Targaryens.

Chief amongst those was his own brother Oberyn, the Red Viper. Oberyn had never forgot Elia and her children's murders at the hands of Aerys Targaryen, no more than he did. And as the hot headed viper his brother was Oberyn quickly took to hate Rhaegar and his new family naming them for the fate of their sister. But Doran knew better than that and he knew how to calm his brother and how to hide him while he makes the perfect time for him to strike.

The Prince of the Seven Kingdoms kept a careful watch of his surrounding and his guards kept close to him. His party consisted of only a few people and Doran Martell was glad for it. The last time the Royal family came to Dorne it was a complete destruction. Even though Aegon Targaryen only brought a few people with him he still had a great protection around him as he'd brought his green dragon with him.

The feast was fabulously rich for the Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms. Seven courses were served, in honor of the seven gods. The soup was made with eggs and lemons, the long green peppers stuffed with cheese and onions. There were lamprey pies, capons glazed with honey, a whiskerfish from the bottom of the Greenblood that was so big it took four serving men to carry it to table. After that came a savory snake stew, chunks of seven different sorts of snake slow-simmered with dragon peppers and blood oranges and a dash of venom to give it a good bite. The stew was fiery hot, Doran knew, though he tasted none of it. Sherbet followed, to cool the tongue. For the sweet, each guest was served a skull of spun sugar. When the crust was broken, they found sweet custard inside and bits of plum and cherry.

Arianne was enjoying her little talks and drinks with her prince. He had placed his daughter between himself and Prince Aegon, a place near her betrothed. Arianne smiled as she sipped her wine again, and murmured something in Aegon's ear. The Crown Prince chuckled lightly at that. He ate little, Doran observed: a spoon of soup, a bite of the pepper, the leg off a capon, some fish. He shunned the lamprey pie and tried only one small spoonful of the stew. Even that made his brow break out in sweat.

When the spun-sugar skulls were served, Aegon's mouth grew tight, and he gave Doran and Oberyn a lingering look to see if he was being mocked or threatened. His daughter took notice of it and took to calm her betrothed. "It is the cook's little jape, my prince," said Arianne. "Even death is not sacred to a Dornishmen. You won't be cross with us, I pray?" She brushed the back of her betrothed's hand with her fingers. "I hope you have enjoyed your time in Dorne."

"Everyone has been most hospitable, princess."

Arianne touched the pin that clasped his cloak, an obsidian dragon. "I have always been fond of dragons. They were always a magnificent sight here in the deserts of Dorne."

"Yet it wasn't so magnificent when Rhaenys' dragon Meraxes was shot down with a scorpion bolt," said Prince Aegon.

"It wasn't," said Arianne, "but that is from another time, a time from the past."

Aegon Targaryen gave a nod and sipped his wine. The prince was only a boy, but a wary one at that.

Midnight was close at hand when he turned to the Targaryen prince and said, "Prince Aegon, I have read the letter that you brought me from our king, your father. Might I assume that you are familiar with its contents?"

Aegon greeted him with a plain smile with no emotions. "I am, my lord. My father is to travel for Braavos to finalise the contract with the Iron Bank. Once he returns from Braavos he is to go with my marriage to your daughter Princess Arianne."

"So when will he return?" asked Prince Doran.

"Soon enough." Aegon said and took a sip of his wine.

Soon enough. But will he come back alive or the way Viserys came back. Viserys Targaryen's death in Braavos wasn't a secret in the Seven Kingdoms and a wise man would say that it wouldn't be long before Rhaegar follows his brother's fate as well.

"Let it be," said Doran. "We would do what his grace asks us to do." He grasped the wheels of his chair and pushed himself from the table. "But now you must excuse me, My Prince. All this heat and talk has wearied me. Oberyn, would you be so kind as to help me to my bed? Arianne my daughter will you kiss me good night? Obara, Nymeria, Tyene, come as well, and bid your old uncle a fond good night."

So it fell to his brother to roll his chair from Sunspear's feast hall and down a long gallery to his solar. Areo Hotah, the captain of his guards followed with Oberyn's girls, along with Arianne and Ellaria Sand.

When the doors of his solar were safely closed behind them Doran wheeled his chair about to face his brother and the women. Even that effort left him breathless, and the Myrish blanket that covered his legs caught between two spokes as he rolled, so he had to clutch it to keep it from being torn away. Beneath the coverlet, his legs were pale, soft, ghastly. Both of his knees were red and swollen, and his toes were almost purple, twice the size they should have been.

Arianne came forward as she saw his troubles with the blanket. "Let me help you, Father."

Doran pulled the blanket free. "I can still master mine own blanket. That much at least." It was little enough. His legs had been useless for three years, but there was still some strength in his hands and shoulders.

"Shall I fetch my prince a thimble cup of milk of the poppy?" Maester Caleotte asked.

"I would need a bucket, with this pain. Thank you, but no. I want my wits about me. I'll have no more need of you tonight."

"Very good, my prince." Maester Caleotte bowed and left his solar.

"I take that as the time you told me had come at last," Oberyn said as soon as the maester left his solar.

"What time?" Obara Sand talked first. Even without her whip and shield, she had an angry mannish look to her. In place of a gown, she wore men's breeches and a calf-length linen tunic, cinched at the waist with a belt of copper suns. Her brown hair was tied back in a knot.

"There are things you all need to know that's why I've called you here."

"What things?" asked Nymeria, the second of Oberyn's daughters, her long black braid falling across one shoulder to her lap. She had her father's widow's peak. Beneath it her eyes were large and lustrous. Her wine-red lips curled in a silken smile.

Oberyn gave a hideous smile which gave away nothing. "Things about war," his brother settled in his chair. "Viserys' death, Rhaegar's visit to Braavos, the unrest in the Kingdoms. The time is ripe."

Doran gave a plain look to his brother. "Did our mother married Elia to Rhaegar because she was in love with the crown prince, Oberyn?"

Oberyn slammed his wine cup on the table. "No. But she definitely didn't send her off to die." His black eyes were so dark and dangerous that even the Sand Snakes were taken aback by that.

Ellaria Sand put her arms to calm him down. "Aerys is dead, Oberyn."

"Aerys is just the start," Oberyn said at once. His brother turned to face him. "Rhaegar needed the Dornish spears to take out his father but still he could not or else would not save Elia and his children. When he arrived to King's Landing, the Red Keep fell without a fight but he was still late to save Elia. I would have only needed ten men to do everything he did with an army and in addition would've saved Elia and her children too."

Doran knew what his brother was implying and he didn't wanted him to destroy everything they'd planned in the waiting. "It is not so simple as that Oberyn," Doran said loud and clear for everyone in the room to hear. "If you want to have Rhaegar killed it wouldn't take long for me to ship you to Braavos. But we both know that is not the only thing."

The women in the room looked at one another in confusion.

"I am not blind, nor deaf," Doran said. "I know that you all believe me weak, frightened, feeble. Your father knows me better. Oberyn was ever the viper. Deadly, dangerous, unpredictable. No man dare to tread on him. I am the grass. Pleasant, complaisant, sweet-smelling, swaying with every breeze. Who fears to walk upon the grass? But it is the grass that hides the viper from his enemies and shelters him until he strikes. Your father and I work more closely than you all know ... but now the question is, can I trust his daughters to serve me beside him?"

Doran studied each of them in turn. Obara, rusted nails and boiled leather, with her angry, close-set eyes and rat-brown hair. Nymeria, languid, elegant, olive-skinned, her long black braid bound up in red-gold wire. Tyene, blue-eyed and blond, a child-woman with her soft hands and little giggles.

When the eldest three of Oberyn's daughters swore to serve him, some of the tension went out of the prince. He sagged back into his chair.

"Tell them," Oberyn said from his chair.

Doran took a jagged breath. "When the Targaryens conquered Westeros they only managed to conquer six of the seven kingdoms. Dorne remained unconquered. We were Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken until Daeron the Good joined Dorne to his kingdom with marriage. Now Rhaegar does the same thing." The Prince's eyes looked at his daughter. "Only he don't know the entire thing that comes with it. Soon enough when he marries Arianne to his son he would think that he had brought Dorne back to his line with that but truly it is him who brings his line to us and Arianne would make sure of that." He looked to his daughter and got a nod from her. "Arianne would beard the dragon in its den and soon enough Martell power would dominate King's Landing and even the dragons of the Targaryens won't be able to stop it." Doran raised a hand and brought his attention back to his nieces. "Obara and Nymeria both of you will accompany Arianne to King's Landing. We need our own eyes and ears in the council and at court. In time both of you will find yourselves in high positions and use them for good." Doran advised his neices. Obara and Nymeria both gave a smirk which was equally hideous and dangerous as their father's own.

"And what of me?" asked Tyene.

"Your mother was a septa." Doran looked at his brother and then to the third Sand Snake. "Oberyn once told me that she read to you in the cradle from the Seven-Pointed Star. I want you in King's Landing too, but on the other hill. The faith is completely against the second marriage of Rhaegar. The Swords and the Stars have been reformed, and this new High Septon is not the puppet that the others were. Try and get close to him. If it is needed we will turn down the reign of the dragons over its head with the help of the people."

"Why not? White suits my coloring. I look so ... pure," Tyene said in a voice which would put even the modest of the septas to shame.

"Good," he said, "good. While you do your duties Oberyn and I would continue to do ours. I'll make the plans and Oberyn would make them happen." He hesitated. "But be careful. The trust that Rhaegar keeps in us is our cover. If ... if certain things should come to pass, I will send word to each of you. Things can change quickly in the game of thrones."

"I know you will not fail us." Doran looked at all of them. Arianne, Obara, Nymeria and Tyene. "The sun of Dorne goes with you."

"Unbowed, unbent, unbroken, " the women said together and Doran believed for it to be true. Unbowed, unbent, unbroken was what they were and what they will be.

* * *

 _ **Author's Notes:**_ So finally, the Dornish plot. Hope you guys like it. I took most of the idea from the canon and mixed it with my own. Anyway, comment your thoughts on it. I'd love to hear your thoughts.

 ** _Replies to Guest readers:_** To Guest on Chapter 13: Thanks for the comments, buddy. It really means much to me. Of course, talking about Robert, the man has his flaws but when it comes to Ned or Jon, he is the best.


	15. Chapter 15

**_Brynden_**

It seemed a thousand years ago that Brynden Tully had left Riverrun with his sword and mail, crossing the Tumblestone in a small boat to begin his journey east to the Eyrie with his niece. And it was across the Tumblestone that they came home now, though now they came back for the marriage of her daughter.

Brynden stood in the bow of the boat, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword as the rowers pulled at their oars. Lords Yohn Royce and Hunter was with him. His niece had gone in the first boat with her lord husband and their children, young Robert and sweet Alyssa. Lord Robert and his family set forth on the second boat and Brynden followed them in the third.

They shot down the Tumblestone, letting the strong current push them past the looming WheelTower. The splash and rumble of the great waterwheel within was a sound from his youth when he was still the same young knight who fought in the War of the Ninepenny Kings, who used to regale the tales to his sweet nieces and nephew. That brought a sad smile to Brynden's face. From the sandstone walls of the castle, soldiers and servants looked down on them. From every rampart waved the banner of House Tully: a leaping trout, silver, against a rippling blue-and-red field. Though it was a black trout which defined the legend Brynden Tully it was still a stirring sight, silver or black he is still a Tully. Yet the sight did not made him feel whole and home.

Below the WheelTower, they made a wide turn and knifed through the churning water. The men put their backs into it. The wide arch of the Water Gate came into view, and he heard the creak of heavy chains as the great iron portcullis was winched upward for the incoming boats. It rose slowly as they approached, and Brynden saw that the lower half of it was red with rust. The bottom foot dripped brown mud on them as they passed underneath, the barbed spikes mere inches above their heads. Brynden gazed up at the bars and wondered how deep the rust went and how well the portcullis would stand up to a ram and whether it ought to be replaced. Thoughts like that were seldom far from his mind these days.

They passed beneath the arch and under the walls, moving from sunlight to shadow and back into sunlight. Boats large and small were tied up all around them, secured to iron rings set in the stone. His brother waited with his son for them on the water stair surrounded by his guards. Lord Hoster Tully had always been a big man; tall and broad. His hair and beard had been brown and well streaked with grey the last time he'd seen him, now they had completely turned to white. Hoster looked lordly as ever, in a quilted doublet of red wool with a leaping trout embroidered on his chest. His boots were black, his breeches blue. His nephew was the one who surprised him the most. The small boy who used to pester him for the tales of glory had grown into a stocky young man with a shaggy head of auburn hair and a fiery beard. At his brother's side stood the Lord Tytos Blackwood, a hard pike of a man with close-cropped salt-and-pepper whiskers and a hook nose. His bright yellow armor was inlaid with jet in elaborate vine-and-leaf patterns, and a cloak sewn from raven feathers draped his thin shoulders. Half a dozen of his brother's lords were at his side as well and Brynden knew them all, Lord Jonos Bracken thick of arms and shoulders, with coarse brown hair and brown eyes, Lord Vance, Lord Jason Mallister, with his gaunt and chiseled face, his blue-grey eyes fierce as ever, Lord Clement Piper, short and fat with red hair thick as bush and Ser Desmond Grell and Ser Robin Ryger stood at the head of the guards.

"Bring them in," Lord Hoster commanded. Brynden could see the Lord who named him as the 'black goat of Tully flock', the man who made him as Brynden the Blackfish at that not the brother he'd thought to see. He was afraid that his brother would still hate him even now for refusing his orders to marry. He still remembered the quarrels they both had throughout his youth, all came with the talks of his marriage.

Three men scrambled down the stairs knee-deep in the water and pulled the boats close with long hooks.

Hoster came down the steps to receive them. "My lords," hesaid sternly. "Riverrun welcomes you."

"Lord Hoster," Lord Jon said nodding his head.

His brother moved to his younger daughter Lysa. Despite their fallout in the thing with the Baelish boy, both of them shared a strong embrace.

Brynden stayed back all the while his brother went on to greet the other lords. His brother greeted his grandchildren, hugging Robert Arryn the same way he used to hug Edmure when he was little, pausing a little while looking at Alyssa before hugging her as well, no doubt he remembered Catelyn by seeing her after all even Brynden remembered his oldest niece by looking at her. One by one his brother greeted his guests, Lord Robert Baratheon and his family gradually making his way to him. Brynden fought the urge to hide from him again, to jump into the river and to swim far away from him. But before he could do so his brother's eyes found him stopping his entire thoughts. Hoster walked towards him and stood right in front of him.

His brother looked from his thick grey hair to his wet boots and then back at his face. "I see that you haven't married yet," Hoster said, stern and hard as always when they would talk about his marriage.

Brynden stayed silent afraid that his brother would be angry at anything he has to say. He looked up straight at Hoster's blue eyes. His brother gave a small smirk at him. "You haven't changed a bit, brother," Hoster smiled and hugged him fiercely. Brynden was shocked for a moment at his brother's behaviour. He'd expected him to curse him and chase him away from Riverrun instead Hoster called him a brother and Brynden found himself wondering how much he had missed that word 'brother.' He replied with a hug of his own. "It's good to see you brother."

"It's good to see you too," His brother said when they parted away from the embrace. He looked at him again "Ever the warrior," his brother touched the obsidian and gold pin fashioned in the form of a fish which clasped his cloak, "And ever the blackfish of the Tullys."

Brynden smiled at that and looked at his nephew and shared a hug. See Desmond was the next one to greet him. "Welcome back to Riverrun, my lord," the master at arms of Riverrun hugged him with a smile.

"Thank you, Ser Desmond," Brynden told him smiling.

Ser Robin Ryger was the next one. "It's good to see you again Ser Brynden," The captain of Riverrun's guards said giving him a strong hug.

"Its good to see you too Ser Robin," Brynden said.

The lords of the Riverlands came next. All the ones there with his brother and Brynden greeted them all. When the pleasantries were done they went inside the castle. He looked at his home taking note of everything. The castle had never changed much. He met with the people of Riverrun, with Maester Vyman, with the steward Utherydes Wayn and all the others he had known in his time at Riverrun.

The sun was already getting down when his settling with Riverrun's people was done. He should need to get ready for his grand niece's wedding. He would want a bath. He asked a servant to bring the hot water for his bath and then walked back to his old chambers. His things were already there, his plate and mail and the clothes. He was looking at the Tumblestone running below through the window when the servants brought the hot water for his bath.

The water had gone warm by the time Brynden climbed into his bath. He enjoyed the feeling of the warm water against his skin after so many days now. When he finished his bath, he donned his fresh clothes for the marriage, a black velvet doublet with a leaping black trout on the chest. He pulled on his boots after the black leather breeches.

The walk to the Sept of Riverrun was a short one. The Sept at Riverrun was a seven-sided sandstone building which sat amidst the gardens of the late Lady of Riverrun, Minisa Tully, Hoster's wife and his good sister. His goodsister had loved the gardens spending her times walking among the flowers and plants, so his brother had ordered for it to be built. The Sept was already filled with the Riverlords, the Stormlords and the Valemen. But it wasn't the men who caught the eyes of him, it was a man with a short stature who caught his eyes. So the Old Lion has finally started to act, by sending his dwarf son, thought Brynden looking at Tyrion Lannister talking with his disappointed sister, flanked by two men with lion crested helms and red cloaks.

Inside Gendry Baratheon stood before the image of the Father painted on marble. The candle light caught in the mirrors and a rainbow of light filled the sept. Young Lord Gendry looked so much like his father Lord Robert, tall with a face which would quicken the hearts of the maidens in the entire Seven Kingdoms. He had worn the highest standards of clothes, no doubt the choice of his proud mother. His family had taken their place to the right of the raised alter. Lord Robert stood first resplendent in black and gold, his long black hair tied back. His lady wife, Cersei Lannister stood beside him radiant and splendid in her gown of crimson and gold, a chain of emeralds around her slender white neck. The Lioness had her daughter near her. Argella Baratheon looked so much like her mother even with the black hair and blue eyes of her father. In a gown of woven gold Argella Baratheon outmatched even her mother. From the looks to her grace everything shouted of Cersei Lannister though the little lady had an easy way with the others unlike the daughter of Tywin Lannister, Brynden thought looking at Argella Baratheon giggling at one of her dwarf uncle's comments. With the golden hair and green eyes of his mother, the youngest of Robert Baratheon's children was not worthy of notice unlike his siblings. And Brynden found it the way the boy looked bored even before the start of his own brother's marriage. He looked as if he couldn't wait to leave it for all.

His own family and the Arryns stood to the left. His brother stood at the head, his clothing of red and blue velvet stood out amongst the crowd. Edmure had taken the next place waiting for his marriage. It would come sooner than not. Hoster was desperately trying to find a good match for him. Lysa had taken the next place. At least tonight his niece took to smile, Brynden thought glad that she had chosen to drop her unhappy wife's face at her daughter's marriage. Her son flanked her. Brynden moved past the lords and took his place next to his grand nephew. Robert Arryn gave him a smile when he saw him, the same one he would give him every morning when he comes to him for his training. His brother gave him a look which said everything he had to say. Brynden knew very well what his brother had wanted to say. He ignored the look and smiled at his grand nephew and waited for the ceremony to begin.

The ceremony started shortly when Jon Arryn brought his daughter into the sept. Alyssa looked a vision in her gown of ivory samite and cloth-of-silver, lined with silvery satin, sewn with threads so thin that it looked as if she had worn a cloth of glass. On the chest was a blue falcon, big with its wings spread and faced upward, made with sapphires sewn into the gown which shone so bright that it almost defeated the rainbow lights inside the sept. Her maiden's cloak was a white velvet, heavy with pearls for the crescent moon with a falcon woven onto it with skyblue thread.

Brynden thought about the a marriage he had seen here before. They had arrived to this same sept after a ceremony at Riverrun's Godswood before the weirwood tree. His niece had been full of life and happy that day very much like her husband. But the happy marriage only stood long enough to join them in death even before their wedding life began and he desperately wished for this marriage to stand till the end unlike that.

The wedding ceremony passed quickly with the vows and prayers and the songs. Soon they reached the part of changing of cloaks. Lord Arryn unclasped his daughter's maiden's cloak and left with a kiss to his daughter's cheek. Gendry Baratheon cloaked Alyssa with a heavy cloth-of-gold cloak, with the crowned stag of Baratheon worked upon its back in beads of onyx.

When Alyssa was cloaked in the Baratheon colors she turned to face her husband. "With this kiss I pledge my love, and take you for my lord and husband."

"With this kiss I pledge my love," Gendry Baratheon replied, "and take you for my lady and wife." They leaned forward towards each other, and their lips touched briefly.

The wedding feast was held in the Great Hall. Gendry and Alyssa had taken the high place. The families and the other lords filled up the Hall. The marriage had brought most of the lords to Riverrun. The feast was exotic with foods rich in flavour. Brynden tasted only a little of the food Riverrun's cooks had made for the feast. He had a piece of honeyed chicken and a seared trout with a apricot tart for the dessert.

The tables were cleared to make room for the dance floor. When the musicians began to play Gendry and Alyssa led the dance. Looking at them Brynden thought about the dance Cat had with her husband years before. He had desperately wanted her to be happy. His brother had made the match for House Tully's advantage but Brynden had wanted his niece to have a husband she loved and a life she wanted. That she did but the Targaryens took it away from her. Looking at Gendry and Alyssa having their first dance as a married couple he could only think about the justice for his niece.

* * *

 _ **Author's Notes: Hi guys, another chapter. Hope you like it guys. Some good old reunion and a wedding. Things will be rolling over fastly hereafter, hopefully my writing as well. I'll try to bring the next chapter out as fast as I can. Until then, see you guys. Good DAY.**_


	16. Chapter 16

**_Tyrion_**

Rhaegar Targaryen has gone to Braavos," Jon Arryn said.

"He is and for finalising the deal with the Iron Bank." Hoster Tully said. The cool night air filled Lord Hoster's solar through the opened balcony.

Tyrion said nothing and took a sip from his wine. He was oft quiet in council, preferring to listen before he spoke, a habit Tyrion himself tried to emulate from his father, Lord Tywin Lannister.

"Viserys is dead, Rhaegar gone, now is the perfect time to strike King's Landing before they could get up from the loss of the big heads," Edmure Tully announced, all youth and glory.

Jon Arryn gave a sharp look at his good brother. "Without the North?" He raised his eyebrows at the young Tully. "Without the northern support we might end up in the jaws of the dragons even before we start what we want to do."

Edmure Tully gave an abashed look and bowed his face down.

"We cannot move on our terms with the entire power of Winterfell looming behind us," Lord Arryn said, his lined face taut and his mouth pressed tight. The man looked nothing like the man he had seen in his nephew's marriage. It's only been days since the marriage yet the change in the man was unbelievable even for Tyrion.

"Jon is right," Robert said placing his strong arms on the table, his black hair pulled back and tied in a perfect knot. "We cannot leave Winterfell in the hands of the Targaryens behind us. If we do so we will get locked in between from the north and the south. And it will be only a matter of time before the dragons do a short work of us."

Atleast he was good in this thing. Robert reminded him more and more of his brother Jaime. Both had their wits in their sword hands.

"Well if that is the case then you should march to liberate Winterfell," Cersei voiced her thoughts for the first time, the only woman in the meeting. His sister always thought herself as Lord Tywin with teats and she tried hard to be that, only to fail in her plans. She did have her wits and courage but Lord Tywin never rushed with anything. On the other hand his sister had her way of rushing things.

"Quiet woman," Robert silenced her. "If things were so simple as that, I myself would ride north with my hammer to knock down Winterfell's gates and liberate Winterfell from the Dragonspawn. Thing is who will lead the north after that? Without a Stark there will be no peace in the north let alone a proper leader."

"What about Lord Eddard's brother, Benjen," Hoster Tully offered, "The last I heard of him, he was with the Night's Watch."

Robert chuckled at once. "That is Ned's brother. If he was half the man that Ned was, expecting him is like expecting one of the Targaryen dragons to turn to our side. The Starks and their honors." Robert grew visibly upset at the mentioning of Ned Stark.

Eleven years has passed since the death of the Stark lord and his family, his beautiful young wife and their little son. It was queer to him to see the people clinging over some incident happened almost twelve years ago. But then again some past were meant to be remembered Tyrion thought remembering Tysha and their short lived marriage.

"That leaves us with the Westerlands now," Hoster Tully mentioned.

Tyrion looked up away from the depths of the wine swirling in his cup to find all the eyes of the men in the room fixed upon him.

"Where is father?" Cersei demanded at once. "What is he doing by sending you here?"

Tyrion placed his wine cup on the table and leaned forward from his chair. "That is why I am here sweet sister," he said directing a smile at Cersei. His sister only seemed irritated by that and Tyrion loved to see her like that. "I am here in the place of my father."

"So what is the plan of Tywin Lannister?" Robert asked. "He must have one or did he send you here to simply wish Gendry on his marriage in his place."

Hot heads. The gods must have played jokes with the matches they made for Cersei. First Jaime, now Robert both slow in wits and quick in hands. "Both," he answered and took a sip of wine from his cup.

The men continued with the talks of war but Tyrion worried nothing but for wine. He picked up the flagon from the table and filled his cup again. The wine in the cups of the others remained untouched so it wouldn't be a problem even if he emptied the entire flagon. He placed the flagon down again on the table and took another sip of the wine. The warm wine snaked its way down his throat to his belly, warming up his insides.

"We should be happy about Viserys' death," Lord Hoster said. "Atleast that delayed Rhaegar's entire plans for his alliance. He still needs to tie all the loose ends to solidify his alliance."

"Speaking of Viserys' death isn't it a bit odd about it," Tyrion said looking into the red swirls of the wine in his cup.

"What is curious about it?" Robert's voice made him to look up. "The damn thing was destined to die anyway. He killed Ned's wife and son. If he didn't got killed in Braavos I would have killed him myself."

Someone must tell him the entire story of Viserys death, Tyrion thought. Half truths might reveal only half the things you wanted to know.

"There is nothing odd about Viserys' death. He was expected to die," Tyrion said. "But it is odd about how he died. He was hanged from a brothel with a broken face."

All their eyes was fixed on him and Tyrion continued. "Now any normal Sellsword or cutthroat will try to keep their handiworks hidden. No one would proudly display their accomplishment like this. Surely no one would do a thing like this to a Prince of Westeros of course, until he was a half wit. Or else he must have been an intelligent one to do that."

"What are you trying to say?" Cersei urged.

I am trying to save your family you fool, Tyrion wanted to say but he didn't voiced his thoughts. "Oh if you still couldn't understand it sweet sister you're dumber than I thought you to be."

Cersei leered at him and was ready to jump for him but the tension between them was broken by Jon Arryn's voice.

"He is right," Lord Jon Arryn said. "Viserys comes back as a corpse and Rhaegar goes to Braavos in his place. If I am right Viserys' killer has not only killed Viserys but also used Viserys' death to lure Rhaegar to Braavos right where he killed Viserys."

"But who is that?" Edmure Tully pushed it once again.

"I don't know," Tyrion admitted swirling the wine in his cup. He looked up at the men around the table, noting all their faces. "All I can say is that you are not the only ones who were wronged by the Targaryens."

"Anyways how will this ghost of a man you talk of about would be of any help to us?" Edmure Tully asked at once.

He will be more of a help than you are now of course, Tyrion found his anger raising in him. Edmure Tully was nothing like his father, all about wars and glory just like all the young men of his age. I am young too and wars and glory are not my thing but then again I am only half a man.

Tyrion looked at Edmure Tully. "There is an old saying, 'An enemy of my enemy is my friend'," he said.

"You want us to forge an alliance with him," Robert raised his eyebrows at him. "Well good luck finding him in the first place. He could be anywhere in Braavos now."

"I am not asking you to join your hands with him," Tyrion said placing his hands on the table. "All I am saying is that give him some time. If he is any good at doing this, with luck on his side it is only a matter of time before Rhaegar ends up the same way as his brother did. And I think him to be good at this."

Tyrion leaned forward from his chair and looked at the faces of all the men surrounding him, all great lords and legends and he was sitting with them. "With Rhaegar dead his entire alliance will be destroyed. His wife Lyanna could never hold it together like Rhaegar had and before they know what had happened hell might break loose on them. The Tyrells will push to place Margaery on the throne with Aegon while the Martells will demand to right the wrongs done to Elia Martell and her children by giving Arianne Martell the place which should have belonged to Elia. The Reachmen and the Dornish will be at each others' throats and the Targaryens will be forced to select one of them. With the disputes in the south, they might very well forget the north. There are ways and weapons to kill a dragon. Liberate Winterfell from the hands of Jaeherys Targaryen and give the northerners a chance to avenge their lords and heirs. The north remembers. They have lost their lords and heirs of two generations. I'm pretty much sure that they would never have forgotten the deaths of Eddard Stark or his father or his brother and not even his little son. Now with this army against that quarreling one it will be an easy job for us to wipe out the entire Targaryens and their dragons from existence."

By the time Tyrion finished his plan his throat was dry and he needed wine more than anything. He took a big drink from his cup and looked up at the table. Everyone in the room was looking at him. He could even see a hint of awe in the face of Cersei, only marred with hate and a fake smile.

"That is a ..." Lord Jon started, "good plan."

Lord Hoster Tully and his brother, one of the heroes of Tyrion's brother Jaime, Brynden 'The Blackfish' Tully both seemed to approve it as well.

"Even if your plan endangers my chances of killing the Dragonspawn, I like it," Robert laughed and clapped his back which made Tyrion sway in his chair.

"What about the Iron Bank?" Cersei asked with a smile so sweet you couldn't see the secrets behind it. "If Rhaegar gets this contract of Iron Bank for his family, the Targaryens could very well raise their own Sellsword army."

"That shouldn't be a problem," Tyrion smirked drinking his wine. "Rumors."

"Rumors?" Cersei asked surprised.

"Yes, rumors," Tyrion eased himself against the cushioned chair. "The Braavosi have always hated the valyrians until now. But now with a valyrian prince dead in Braavos and a king soon to follow him, it almost measures the end of their friendship. A wrong word in the wrong ear, their contract would very well burn the same time Rhaegar burns in his pyre."

As the Lords before him approved his plans, Tyrion thought about the thing his father had sent him here. "Get them to make Robert the King and I'll support them," Lord Tywin had told him the day he travelled from Casterly Rock to Riverrun for his nephew's wedding. Looking at the Lords before him Tyrion smiled, you see father I have done something a lot greater than what you have asked me to do. Now they stand together.

* * *

 _ **Author's Notes: Okay so a short chapter for Tyrion. We'll be seeing more of this little guy**_

 _ **Replies for Guest readers:**_ _ **To Marvelmyra on Chapter 1:** Thanks for the comments first. __Ashara was Elia's favorite handmaiden? I'm sorry, I haven't ever seen a claim such as this in the books. The only thing I heard was that Ashara was one of (not favorite) Elia's ladies-in-waiting. Other than that nothing is said about them. No single mention has been made about it. Barristan thinks about both Ashara and Elia and he thinks about them separately. There is no mentioning of any closeness between them. Oberyn speaks about Elia and also about their visit to Starfall on their way to Casterly Rock. Now if Ashara and Elia had some kind of friendship surely Oberyn would've said about it. Just because Ashara was her lady-in-waiting you can't say that they were like Joanna-Loreza. There is no valid claim that they were close. After all Ashara has just came into her service only a few years before Harrenhal. Ser Barristan's thoughts say it, 'A maid not long at court'. The reasons said for Ashara's death include a lost husband, a lost brother and a lost child. Even there no mentioning of Elia is mentioned. Seriously there is no single claim for that._

 _Again and again, tell me where did you read about this hidden letter of Lyanna? As far as I know there is nothing. Because if she'd sent some form of a letter to her family she would've definitely ask about it to Ned but Ned never thinks or mentions of some letter of hers. Also isn't it so dumb as to give such an important letter to Lysa, who is a complete stranger to her (not to mention Petyr who wasn't even there. He was sent as soon as he was healed before the northern party came)? That was just given as an eg for the mistakes in that theory. But really there was no such letter or not even mention of one as far as we know. Lysa confesses all the things she'd done under Baelish's prodding but even she doesn't tell of this letter you speak of. No offence but if you ever read something about this letter in the books please tell me the chapter and the book so I could read about it._

 _What Brandon would've done? We would've known that if Lyanna or Rhaegar had the right mind to just say about it. But they didn't, they just ran. I believe that the northmen will be cold towards her since she broke the betrothal made in front of the eyes of gods and men which is a dishonorable act. Of course it is just my belief._

 _And how are you saying that Ashara knew about R+L. If she had known she would've told someone and stopped the war. After all she loved Ned and now her lover is going to fight in some war and her brother too. So are you saying that she too was irresponsible and idiotic like Lyanna? That's just stupid. How did you even think that she knew about it?_

 **To Marvelmyra on Chapter 2:** _The main fact I chose for Ned-Lyanna relationship is that in the books Ned admits that Lyanna was wrong in the thing with Rhaegar and justifies her death. 'Willful and dead before her time.' that's Ned's words not mine. Ned is not the one to take it easy when someone does the wrong thing. He despises Jaime for killing Aerys. Really, either Robert or he would've done the job if not for Jaime and Aerys is to die. Similarly if Lyanna had lived after her decisions had killed their father and brother and brother's wife it is natural for the man to be pissed off._

 _Now are you saying that if Robert or Jon is killed nothing would happen or Ned would stay silent? I really hope that you don't. But if you did you really should read AGOT because you really need to understand the relationship of Robert-Jon-Ned. It's more like Son-Father-Son._

 _And I can assure you there is more mysteries to the Ned/Ashara storyline than you think. I'll be bringing it up as the story goes on._


	17. Chapter 17

**_Daenerys_**

It was close to sunset when the guard came to call her for the urgent small council meeting. Dany followed the guard to the small council chambers at once. A knight of the Kingsguard was always posted outside the doors of the council chambers when the small council was in session. Today it was Ser Daemon Sand, handsome in his white armor. "Ser Daemon," Dany said pleasantly.

Ser Daemon's cheeks dimpled when he smiled. "Princess," he replied, his sky blue eyes twinkling. Rhaegar had left him in king's Landing to guard the royal family while taking Ser Gerold, Ser Oswell, Ser Jaime and Prince Lewyn with him to Braavos. Her brother hadn't wanted to take any chances after the thing with Viserys.

With Rhaegar gone to Braavos, Aegon to Dorne it fell to Dany to take care of the things in the court. Dany passed through the doors Ser Daemon held open for her. The councillors quieted as she entered. Proud and prickly Lord Jon Connington gave a taut look as a greeting. The others rose, mouthing pleasantries. Dany allowed herself the faintest of smiles. "My lords, I know you will forgive my lateness."

"We are here to serve Your Grace," said the eunuch Varys. "It is our pleasure to anticipate your coming."

"So what is this important news which concerns the Crown." Dany seated herself between the Lord Hand Jon and Varys. These are my councillors now. Men whose loyalty belongs to her family. It is hard to find men of this kind now. Men like Jon Connington and Varys. Of the others, Dany had very little trust in them. The newly made Master of Ships, Aurane Waters, the dashing young Bastard of Driftmark, have proven himself to be a worthy replacement for her brother but still, Dany doubted the loyalty of the tricksy smirk in his narrow face.

Without Ser Gerold Hightower the seat of the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard was free. Dany was tempted to bring Ser Barristan to take his place. At least the Old Knight would tell her the truth and give her good counsel unlike the lackwits surrounding her. Jon Connington was an able man but too prickly and proud even to a princess. Without Rhaegar she would find only a little of his help, she was sure. Varys can prove his worth but at the same time, no one other than him knew what he knows and what he is telling you. Littlefinger was loyal only to Littlefinger, with the pointy beard and sly smile he would talk one thing while playing at some other in his mind. Grand Maester Pylos was good at following orders but never the one to provide some. And her future good father Lord Mace Tyrell, she didn't know what to make of him but he was happy enough to be here and the Tyrells were one of the most loyal houses of the Targaryens from the time of Aegon the Conqueror when Aegon the Dragon came along and cooked the rightful King of the Reach on the Field of Fire and gave the castle Highgarden to the Tyrells and elevated them to the post of a High Lord from a mere steward. The Tyrells are the richest house in the Seven Kingdoms only next to the Lannisters and they can raise more swords than any of the other Great Houses. It is good to have Mace Tyrell near them even if he proves to be useless.

The council was a tedium the princess knew well. She sat upon her cushions, listening, one foot jiggling with impatience. They had told her that it was urgent but nothing they spoke of felt like an urgent matter for her.

When they brought to bring her concern to the meeting the room was lit by the candles while the darkness had swallowed the outside world. Jon Connington handed her the parchment which turned his face sour.

Dany unrolled the parchment slowly and read it over once, and then again.

"So how does this concerns us?" Dany asked when she read the contents on Varys' letter carefully.

Jon Connington gave her a plain harsh look. "Don't you understand what this means? Or have you forgotten why your brother did all those things until now, even your betrothal?"

He dares say this in open council? Dany felt a blaze of anger. He has courage, I grant that, but if he thinks I am about to suffer another scolding, he could not be more wrong. "This is just another marriage in the realm like many others," she said, "why should this trouble us?"

"It is not just a marriage," the Lord Hand said. "Alliances are sealed by marriage and this alliance once threatened your father's rule and your brother's after him. Now it has started again."

It was true. Both her father and her brother had been wary about the Stark-Baratheon-Arryn-Tully alliance. To see it happen again is not a good thing.

"This is the thing which has troubled the crown from the first," Lord Connington said. "We were wise to cut off the tree but not so wise enough to root it out. This marriage between Robert Baratheon's son and Jon Arryn's daughter it still binds four great houses together. And that means it is trouble for us."

Dany unrolled the parchment and examine it again. "This changes nothing," she said as she smoothened her skirts. "They are very well welcome to marry whoever they wish, without a Stark it will never be fulfilled. Eddard Stark lies dead in the ground with his wife and son so I don't care if Robert Baratheon wishes to marry his daughter to a ghost."

The members of the small council gave her puzzled looks but Dany ignored them all. "We shall talk about it once my brother returns." The princess rose. "Then we are done for now." She left them all and made her way to her apartments.

In the quiet of her chambers, Dany stripped off her finery and donned a loose robe of purple silk. She fell on her bed and closed her eyes. That night she dreamt that she was in a battlefield. She was mounted on Drogon but her other children weren't with her. Below the war rushed in the waters all along the river. Her enemies were massing across the river and Dany flew over them and bathed them in fire. She rounded and rounded over them on her dragon until she finally saw that she was not on Drogon anymore. Round and round she went, falling.

She woke suddenly in the darkness of her cabin, still flush with fear. Drogon seemed to wake with her, and she heard the faint whisper of his wings flapping outside the castle, a footfall outside her chambers. And something else.

Someone was in the chambers with her.

"Who is there? Where are you?" There was no response. "Vaella, is that you?" she called for her hand maiden. It was too black to see, but she could hear her breathing.

"They sleep," a woman said. "They all sleep." The voice was very close. "Even dragons must sleep."

She is standing over me. "Who's there?" Dany peered into the darkness. She thought she could see a shadow, the faintest outline of a shape. "What do you want of me?"

"Remember. To go north, you must journey south. To reach the west, you must go east. To go forward you must go back, and to touch the light you must pass beneath the shadow."

"Quaithe?" Dany sprung from the bed and threw down her blankets. She hasn't heard from the woman ever since she left after helping her to bring back her dragons. Those were the same words the shadowbinder had told her before she left her, she remembered.

She was clad in a hooded robe that brushed the dark floor. Beneath the hood, her face seemed hard and shiny. She is wearing a mask, Dany knew, a wooden mask finished in dark red lacquer.

"Quaithe? Am I dreaming?" She pinched her ear and winced at the pain.

"You're not dreaming. Not now, not ever."

"What are you doing here? How did you get past my guards?"

"I came another way. Your guards never saw me."

"If I call out, they will kill you."

"They will swear to you that I am not here."

"Are you here?"

"No. Hear me, Daenerys Targaryen. The glass candles are burning. Soon comes the stranger in his dark horse and after him the others. Kraken and dark flame, lion and wolf, the gods' son and the mummer's hero will clash. Beware all of them. Beware!"

"Beware? Why should I fear them?" Dany rose from the bed. Her blankets slipped down her legs, and gooseflesh covered her arms in the cool night air."

"If you have some warning for me, speak plainly. What do you want of me, Quaithe?"

Moonlight shone in the woman's eyes. "To show you the way."

"I remember the way. I go north to go south, east to go west, back to go forward. And to touch the light I have to pass beneath the shadow." She pushed back her silvery hair from her face. "I am half-sick of riddling. I am a Targaryen princess. The blood of the dragon. I command you to tell me everything."

"Daenerys. Let me show you."

In a moment the solid floor beneath her dissolved into a puff of smoke and Dany fell as she had fallen from Drogon in her dreams. Soon her feet came back to meet with land but it was not the land she had known. Quaithe emerged beside her silent as a ghost.

"Where are we?" Dany asked her.

"Qarth," the shadow woman answered.

That was all Dany needed to know to figure out where Quaithe had brought her. Qarth is known as the city of splendors. From all of Quaithe's talks about the Undying, Dany had expected the House of the Undying Ones to be the most splendid of all but the building before her was a grey and ancient ruin.

Long and low, without towers or windows, it coiled like a stone serpent through a grove of black-barked trees whose inky blue leaves made the stuff of the sorcerous drink Quaithe had called as the shade of the evening. No other buildings stood near. Black tiles covered the palace roof, many fallen or broken; the mortar between the stones was dry and crumbling.

"There lies the answers for all your questions," Quaithe said. "But be careful, Warlocks are bitter creatures who eat dust and drink of shadows. Don't overstay your welcome."

"Won't you come with me?" Dany asked.

"You should do this alone."

It was darker than she would have thought under the black trees, and the way was longer. Though the path seemed to run straight from the street to the door of the palace, Quaithe soon turned aside. When she questioned her, the shadowbinder said only, "The front way leads in, but never out again. Heed my words, Daenerys. The House of the Undying Ones was not made for mortal men. If you value your soul, take care and do just as I tell you."

"I will do as you say," Dany promised.

"When you enter, you will find yourself in a room with four doors: the one you have come through and three others. Take the door to your right. Each time, the door to your right. If you should come upon a stairwell, climb. Never go down, and never take any door but the first door to your right."

"The door to my right," Dany repeated. "I understand. And when I leave, the opposite?"

"By no means," Quaithe said. "Leaving and coming, it is the same. Always up. Always the door to your right. Other doors may open to you. Within, you will see many things that disturb you. Visions of loveliness and visions of horror, wonders and terrors. Sights and sounds of days gone by and days to come and days that never were. Dwellers and servitors may speak to you as you go. Answer or ignore them as you choose, but enter no room until you reach the audience chamber."

"I understand."

"When you come to the chamber of the Undying, be patient. Our little lives are no more than a flicker of a moth's wing to them. Listen well, and write each word upon your heart."

When they reached the door—a tall oval mouth, set in a wall fashioned in the likeness of a human face."

"Now you may enter," said the Asshai'i woman. Dany took a deep breath, and went inside.

She found herself in a stone anteroom with four doors, one on each wall. With never a hesitation, she went to the door on her right and stepped through. The second room was a twin to the first. Again she turned to the right-hand door. When she pushed it open she faced yet another small antechamber with four doors. I am in the presence of sorcery.

The fourth room was oval rather than square and walled in worm-eaten wood in place of stone. Six passages led out from it in place of four. Dany chose the rightmost, and entered a long, dim, high-ceilinged hall. Along the right hand was a row of torches burning with a smoky orange light, but the only doors were to her left.

The mold-eaten carpet under her feet had once been gorgeously colored, and whorls of gold could still be seen in the fabric, glinting broken amidst the faded grey and mottled green. What remained served to muffle her footfalls, but that was not all to the good. Dany could hear sounds within the walls, a faint scurrying and scrabbling that made her think of rats. Other sounds, even more disturbing, came through some of the closed doors. One shook and thumped, as if someone were trying to break through. From another came a dissonant piping that made her heartbeat quicken. Dany hurried quickly past.

Not all the doors were closed. I will not look, Dany told herself, but the temptation was too strong.

In one dark, dank room, a beautiful woman with dark hair curled up in a corner, crying. The rats and her tears were her only companions. The woman was covered in a blanket of night but she shone as a star bright enough to keep herself from drowning in the darkness.

Farther on she came upon a feast of corpses. Savagely slaughtered, the feasters lay strewn across overturned chairs and hacked trestle tables, asprawl in pools of congealing blood. Some had lost limbs, even heads. Severed hands clutched bloody cups, wooden spoons, roast fowl, heels of bread. In a throne above them sat a dead man with the head of a wolf. A beautiful glowing raven haired woman was on his lap while a white knight stood beside them, his sword glowing like pale fire to keep the dark away from them.

She fled from them, but only as far as the next open door. I know this room, she thought. She remembered those great stone beams and the carved dragon faces that adorned them. And there outside the window, a storm raged. The sight of it made her heart ache with longing. No sooner had she thought it than a woman with silver hair dry and brittle and a body that covered with half a hundred of nail scratches and teeth bites held on to a baby. "Daenerys," she said in a voice faint as death. Her lean wrinkled hand reached for her, soft as old leather, and Dany wanted to take it and hold it and kiss it, she wanted that as much as she had ever wanted anything. Her foot edged forward, and then she thought, she's dead, my mother's dead, I never knew her, she died a long time ago. She backed away and ran.

The long hall went on and on and on, with endless doors to her left and only torches to her right. She ran past more doors than she could count, closed doors and open ones, doors of wood and doors of iron, carved doors and plain ones, doors with pulls and doors with locks and doors with knockers. Dany ran and ran until she could run no more.

Finally a great pair of bronze doors appeared to her left, grander than the rest. They swung open as she neared, and she had to stop and look. Beyond loomed a cavernous stone hall, the largest she had ever seen. The Throne room. The skulls of dead dragons looked down from its walls. Upon a towering barbed throne sat an old man in rich robes, an old man with dark eyes and long silver-grey hair. "Let him be king over charred bones and cooked meat," he said to a man below him. "Let him be the king of ashes." A woman shrieked, but the king on his throne looked amused, and Dany moved on.

Rhaegar, she thought when she paused in the next room. "Aegon," he said to a woman she didn't knew nursing a newborn babe in a great wooden bed. "What better name for a king?"

"Will you make a song for him?" the woman asked.

"He has a song," the man replied. "He is the prince that was promised, and his is the song of ice and fire." He looked up when he said it and his eyes met Dany's, and it seemed as if he saw her standing there beyond the door.

"There must be one more," he said, though whether he was speaking to her or the woman in the bed she could not say. "The dragon has three heads." He went to the window seat, picked up a harp, and ran his fingers lightly over its silvery strings. Sweet sadness filled the room as man and wife and babe faded like the morning mist, only the music lingering behind to speed her on her way. It was not long before she stopped at another room. This time the walls were covered in red blood but everything around felt the same except for the woman. Dany saw her brother with his wife, naming his son Aegon in the same way he had named that other Aegon she'd seen with that unknown woman.

It seemed as though she walked for another hour before the long hall finally ended in a steep stone stair, descending into darkness. Every door, open or closed, had been to her left. Dany looked back behind her. The torches were going out, she realized with a start of fear. Perhaps twenty still burned. Thirty at most. One more guttered out even as she watched, and the darkness came a little farther down the hall, creeping toward her. And as she listened it seemed as if she heard something else coming, shuffling and dragging itself slowly along the faded carpet. Terror filled her. She could not go back and she was afraid to stay here, but how could she go on? There was no door on her right, and the steps went down, not up.

Yet another torch went out as she stood pondering, and the sounds grew faintly louder. Dany turned to the blank wall once more, but there was nothing. Could there be a secret door, a door I cannot see? Another torch went out. Another. The first door on the right, he said, always the first door on the right. The first door on the right . . .

It came to her suddenly. . . . is the last door on the left!

She flung herself through. Beyond was another small room with four doors. To the right she went, and to the right, and to the right, and to the right, and to the right, and to the right, and to the right, until she was dizzy and out of breath once more.

When she stopped, she found herself in yet another dank stone chamber . . . but this time the door opposite was round, shaped like an open mouth, and Quaithe stood outside in the grass beneath the trees. "Can it be that the Undying are done with you so soon?" she asked in disbelief when he saw her.

"So soon?" she asked, confused. "I haven't even seen them yet."

"You have taken a wrong turning. Come, I will lead you." Quaithe held out her hand.

Dany hesitated. There was a door to her right, still closed . . .

"That's not the way," Quaithe said firmly, her wet eyes glinting with disapproval. "The Undying Ones will not wait forever."

"You should do this alone," Dany said, remembering.

"Stubborn girl. You will be lost, and never found."

She walked away from her, to the door on the right.

"No," Quaithe screeched. "No, to me, come to me, to meeeeeee." Her masked face crumbled inward, changing to something pale and wormlike.

Dany left her behind, entering a stairwell. She began to climb. Before long her legs were aching. She recalled that the House of the Undying Ones had seemed to have no towers.

Finally the stair opened. To her right, a set of wide wooden doors had been thrown open. They were fashioned of ebony and weirwood, the black and white grains swirling and twisting in strange interwoven patterns. They were very beautiful, yet somehow frightening. The blood of the dragon must not be afraid. Dany said a quick prayer, begging the Warrior for courage and strength. She made herself walk forward.

Beyond the doors was a great hall and a splendor of wizards. Some wore sumptuous robes of ermine, ruby velvet, and cloth of gold. Others fancied elaborate armor studded with gemstones, or tall pointed hats speckled with stars. There were women among them, dressed in gowns of surpassing loveliness. Shafts of sunlight slanted through windows of stained glass, and the air was alive with the most beautiful music she had ever heard.

A kingly man in rich robes rose when he saw her, and smiled. "Daenerys of House Targaryen, be welcome. Come and share the food of forever. We are the Undying of Qarth."

"Long have we awaited you," said a woman beside him, clad in rose and silver. The breast she had left bare in the Qartheen fashion was as perfect as a breast could be.

"We knew you were to come to us," the wizard king said. "A thousand years ago we knew, and have been waiting all this time. We sent the shadowwoman to show you the way."

"We have knowledge to share with you," said a warrior in shining emerald armor, "and magic weapons to arm you with. You have passed every trial. Now come and sit with us, and all your questions shall be answered."

She took a step forward.

Doubt seized her. The great door was so heavy it took all of Dany's strength to budge it, but finally it began to move. Behind was another door, hidden. It was old grey wood, splintery and plain . . . but it stood to the right of the door through which she'd entered. The wizards were beckoning her with voices sweeter than song. She ran from them.

Through the narrow door she passed, into a chamber awash in gloom.

A long stone table filled this room. Above it floated a human heart, swollen and blue with corruption, yet still alive. It beat, a deep ponderous throb of sound, and each pulse sent out a wash of indigo light. The figures around the table were no more than blue shadows. As Dany walked to the empty chair at the foot of the table, they did not stir, nor speak, nor turn to face her. There was no sound but the slow, deep beat of the rotting heart.

. . . mother of dragons . . . came a voice, part whisper and part moan . . . . dragons . . . dragons . . . dragons . . . other voices echoed in the gloom. Some were male and some female. One spoke with the timbre of a child. The floating heart pulsed from dimness to darkness. It was hard to summon the will to speak, to recall the words she had practiced so assiduously. "I am Princess Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen." Do they hear me? Why don't they move? She sat, folding her hands in her lap. "Grant me your counsel, and speak to me with the wisdom of those who have conquered death."

Through the indigo murk, she could make out the wizened features of the Undying One to her right, an old old man, wrinkled and hairless. His flesh was a ripe violet-blue, his lips and nails bluer still, so dark they were almost black. Even the whites of his eyes were blue. They stared unseeing at the ancient woman on the opposite side of the table, whose gown of pale silk had rotted on her body. One withered breast was left bare in the Qartheen manner, to show a pointed blue nipple hard as leather.

She is not breathing. Dany listened to the silence. None of them are breathing, and they do not move, and those eyes see nothing. Could it be that the Undying Ones were dead?

Her answer was a whisper as thin as a mouse's whisker. . . . we live . . . live . . . live . . . it sounded. Myriad other voices whispered echoes . . . . And know . . . know . . . know . . . know . . .

"I have come for the gift of truth," Dany said. "In the long hall, the things I saw . . . were they true visions, or lies? Past things, or things to come? What did they mean?"

. . . the shape of shadows . . . morrows not yet made . . . drink from the cup of ice . . . drink from the cup of fire . . .

. . . mother of dragons . . . child of three . . .

"Three?" She did not understand.

. . . three heads has the dragon . . . the ghost chorus yarnmered inside her skull with never a lip moving, never a breath stirring the still blue air. . . . mother of dragons . . . child of storm . . . The whispers became a swirling song. . . . three fires must you light . . . one for life and one for death and one to love . . . Her own heart was beating in unison to the one that floated before her, blue and corrupt . . . three mounts must you ride . . . one to bed and one to dread and one to love . . . The voices were growing louder, she realized, and it seemed her heart was slowing, and even her breath. . . . three treasons will you know . . . once for blood and once for gold and once for love . . .

"I don't . . . " Her voice was no more than a whisper, almost as faint as theirs. What was happening to her? "I don't understand," she said, more loudly. Why was it so hard to talk here? "Help me. Show me."

. . . help her . . . the whispers mocked. . . . show her . . .

Then phantoms shivered through the murk, images in indigo. Viserys screamed as a star came down upon him, filling him to purge the cold blue soul he had. A blue star reigned high above in the sky, it's light guttering in fire and blood. The Red Keep was filled with the sound of steel dragging over stone. . . . mother of dragons, daughter of death . . . Glowing like sunrise, a red sword was raised in the hand of a king who had a frozen crown upon his head. A cloth dragon swayed torn on poles amidst a cheering crowd. From a smoking tower, a great white beast fell, breathing shadow fire, its wings heavy and useless. . .

Faster and faster the visions came, one after the other, until it seemed as if the very air had come alive. Shadows whirled and danced inside a tent, boneless and terrible. A silver haired woman knelt and bowed to a God in all his eternal glory. A wild voice shrieked in the flames, a dragon bursting in the fire behind her. Behind a silver horse a bloody corpse of a naked woman bounced and dragged. From a pitch dark cavern, two bright red eyes emerged before sulking off in the dark. A man cradled a woman in his arms whose hair shone bright as the summer sun until her fires finally died out. Ten thousand men rushed against a man with a frozen blue sword. One by one they fell and in the end those cold grey eyes were directed towards her. . .

A scream of fury cut the indigo air, and suddenly the visions were gone, ripped away, and Dany's gasp turned to horror. The Undying were all around her, blue and cold, whispering as they reached for her, pulling, stroking, tugging at her clothes, touching her with their dry cold hands, twining their fingers through her hair. All the strength had left her limbs. She could not move. Even her heart had ceased to beat. She felt a hand on her bare breast, twisting her nipple. Teeth found the soft skin of her throat. A mouth descended on one eye, licking, sucking, biting . . .

Then indigo turned to orange, and whispers turned to screams. She felt smoke coming out from her and little by little she disappeared like those visions she had seen. Her heart was pounding, racing, the hands and mouths were gone, cold and damp washed over her skin, and Dany blinked at glooming darkness of her chambers.

"Quaithe?" Dany called for the woman. "Where are you Quaithe? I don't understand this visions."

She never saw the woman but heard her voice. "Remember who you are, Daenerys." Her voice grew faded and distant. "Remember the Undying."

* * *

 _ **Author's Notes: So another chapter guys. This time some prophecies and some sneak peeks to both the past and future. If anyone had unbound any of my mysteries or prophecies give it a go in the comment section. Who knows you could have it right. Also these things are very important incidents which happened or are going to happen in the story so definitely give it a try. Also this chapter has been the toughest to write by far so please leave a review and say how I did it. It really means much to me and encourage me to write further for you guys.**_

 _ **Have a nice day and I'll meet you in the next chapter.**_


	18. Chapter 18

**_Rhaegar_**

Faint and far away the light burned, low on the horizon, shining through the sea mists.

"It looks like a star," said Rhaegar.

"The star of home," said Denyo, the envoy sent from the Iron Bank as a honor guard to meet him.

His captain was shouting orders. Sailors scrambled up and down the three tall masts and moved along the rigging, reefing the heavy black and red sails. Below, oarsmen heaved and strained over two great banks of oars. The decks tilted, creaking, as the Targaryen flagship, Balerion heeled to starboard and began to come about.

The star of home. Rhaegar stood at the prow, one hand resting on the iron figurehead, a roaring dragon head of black iron. For half a heartbeat he remembered how Arthur Dayne had once claimed Starfall as the Home of gods and stars. He wondered which star was lurking here now that the Daynes were dealt with. Arthur and Ashara Dayne, both had glown too much for his liking that he had to finally drown them in darkness.

Braavos might not be so bad as his visit to Starfall was. Denyo said that everything had been already prepared for his visit. It would take one day at the most for me to stay here. Then he would return back to his kingdom and family. The Braavosi also told him about how hard they were searching for Viserys' killer. Maybe he would even get to see the man and deliver his own justice.

The last of the night's stars still peered from the sky through the first light . . . all along with the pair dead ahead. "It's two stars now."

"Two eyes," said Denyo. "The Titan sees us, King Rhaegar."

The Titan of Braavos. One of the splendors in the modern world made by men. A giant of a statue as tall as a mountain, which stood guard in the entrance of Braavos. Just like Arthur Dayne had stood to guard his sister and her husband at Starfall.

Starfall is done and fallen, Rhaegar reminded himself. Eddard Stark, Ashara Dayne and Arthur Dayne were all dead. It did no good to think of them. Even their ghosts never bothered to trouble him in Westeros, and there was no way that they were lurking all the way to haunt him here in Braavos. In Westeros, legends marks the Daynes as the descendants of gods. The gods never die, septons of the Seven preached, still the Daynes died when a blade was put through them. Gods or men the Targaryens answered to no one.

"Do the Braavosi worship the Titan as a god, Denyo?" Rhaegar asked.

"All gods are honored in Braavos." The Braavosi banker loved to talk about his city almost as much as he loved to talk about his home. "Your Seven have a sept here, the Sept-Beyond-the-Sea, but only Westerosi sailors worship there."

"The Moonsingers led us to this place of refuge, where the dragons of Valyria could not find us," Denyo said. "Theirs is the greatest temple. We esteem the Father of Waters as well, but his house is built anew whenever he takes his bride. The rest of the gods dwell together on an isle in the center of the city. That is where you will find the smaller gods."

The Titan's eyes seemed brighter now, and farther apart. Rhaegar never cared about the gods, he barely sought out for the help of gods. He had never wanted their help.

The mists gave way before them, ragged grey curtains parted by their prow. Balerion cleaved through the grey-green waters on billowing black wings. Rhaegar could hear the cries of seabirds overhead. There, in front of them, a line of stony ridges rose sudden from the sea, their steep slopes covered with soldier pines and black spruce. But dead ahead the sea had broken through, and there above the open water the Titan towered, with his eyes blazing and his long green hair blowing in the wind.

His legs bestrode the gap, one foot planted on each mountain, his shoulders looming tall above the jagged crests. His legs were carved of solid stone, the same black granite as the sea monts on which he stood, though around his hips he wore an armored skirt of greenish bronze. His breastplate was bronze as well, and his head in his crested halfhelm. His blowing hair was made of hempen ropes dyed green, and huge fires burned in the caves that were his eyes. One hand rested atop the ridge to his left, bronze fingers coiled about a knob of stone; the other thrust up into the air, clasping the hilt of a broken sword.

He is only a little bigger than King Baelor's statue in King's Landing, he told himself when they were still well off to sea. As the galleas drove closer to where the breakers smashed against the ridgeline, however, the Titan grew larger still. He could hear Balerion's captain bellowing commands in his deep voice, and up in the rigging men were bringing in the sails. We are going to row beneath the Titan's legs. Rhaegar could see the arrow slits in the great bronze breastplate, and stains and speckles on the Titan's arms and shoulders where the seabirds nested. His neck craned upward. Baelor the Blessed would not reach his knee. He could step right over the walls of Red Keep.

Then the Titan gave a mighty roar.

The sound was as huge as he was, a terrible groaning and grinding, so loud it drowned out even the captain's voice and the crash of the waves against those pine-clad ridges. A thousand seabirds took to the air at once. "The Titan warns the Arsenal of our coming, King Rhaegar," Denyo shouted. "We should reach the port soon enough."

Rhaegar nodded in approval.

Wind and wave had Balerion hard in hand now, driving her swiftly toward the channel. Her double bank of oars stroked smoothly, lashing the sea to white foam as the Titan's shadow fell upon them. For a moment it seemed as though they must surely smash up against the stones beneath his legs. Flanked by his Kingsguard at the prow, Rhaegar could taste salt where the spray had touched his face. He had to look straight up to see the Titan's head.

Rhaegar put his hand to the hilt of his sword as they slipped between his legs. More arrow slits dotted the insides of those great stone thighs, and when Rhaegar craned his neck around to watch the crow's nest slip through with a good ten yards to spare, he spied murder holes beneath the Titan's armored skirts, and pale faces staring down at them from behind the iron bars.

And then they were past.

The shadow lifted, the pine-clad ridges fell away to either side, the winds dwindled, and they found themselves moving through a great lagoon. Ahead rose another sea mount, a knob of rock that pushed up from the water like a spiked fist, its stony battlements bristling with scorpions, spitfires, and trebuchets. "The Arsenal of Braavos," Denyo named it, as proud as if he'd built it. "They can build a war galley there in a day. Maybe we could even join both our fleets together and rule the seas together. You see King Rhaegar when two huge forces combine the third one will overcome both the others." Rhaegar could see dozens of galleys tied up at quays and perched on launching slips. The painted prows of others poked from innumerable wooden sheds along the stony shores, like hounds in a kennel, lean and mean and hungry, waiting for a hunter's horn to call them forth. He tried to count them, but there were too many, certainly more than what his own royal fleet numbered and more docks and sheds and quays where the shoreline curved away.

Two galleys had come out to meet them. They seemed to skim upon the water like dragonflies, their pale oars flashing. Rhaegar heard Denyo and the captains of the Braavosi ship he had brought as the honor guard shouting to them and their own captains shouting back, but he did not understand the words. A great horn sounded. The galleys passed to either side of them, so close that he could hear the muffled sound of drums from within their purple hulls, bom bom bom bom bom bom bom bom, like the beat of living hearts.

Then the galleys were behind them, and the Arsenal as well. Ahead stretched a broad expanse of pea-green water rippled like a sheet of colored glass. From its wet heart arose the city proper, a great sprawl of domes and towers and bridges, grey and gold and red. The hundred isles of Braavos in the sea.

It was a flat city, he could see that even from afar, not like King's Landing on its three high hills. The only hills here were the ones that men had raised of brick and granite, bronze and marble. Something else was missing as well, though it took him a few moments to realize what it was. The city has no walls. Not that it needed one. The Braavosi depended on their ships for everything. Trade, war, food, drinks, wealth . . . name anything their ships were connected with it. Unlike the castles in Westeros the walls of Braavos were made of wood and painted purple. Their galleys were their walls. A strong fleet like the Braavosi fleet would protect a lagoon city like Braavos better than any other wall would.

The deck creaked behind them. Rhaegar turned to find the captain of Balerion looming over them in his long captain's coat of purple wool. Tradesman turned Captain Ternesio Terys wore no whiskers and kept his grey hair cut short and neat, framing his square, windburnt face. The Braavosi captain was a man born and grown to man a ship. He was a proven sailor who'd lead his own trading galleas and the Iron Bank's war galleys. A man with a great skill and vast experience worthy enough to be the captain of Balerion, the pride of the royal Targaryen fleet. "Your Grace we are here," he told Rhaegar. "We make for the Chequy Port, where the Sealord's customs officers will come aboard to inspect our holds. They will be half a day at it, they always are, but there is no need for you to wait upon their pleasure. I shall lower the boats, Your Grace, for you and the men. The crew will take you ashore to save the time of your journey."

Rhaegar nodded. He turned to Ser Gerold beside him. "Are the men ready, Lord Commander?" he asked the Lord Commander of his Kingsguard.

The White Bull stepped forward. "The men have already sent to the positions as you've commanded, Your Grace."

"Good," Rhaegar told him. "Nothing should go wrong."

The Lord Commander bowed his head. Rhaegar turned to his ship's captain. "Captain Terys, lower the boats."

His men were already loading the boats when he came to the deck. His boat was already made ready with two men from Balerion's crew at the oars. Rhaegar climbed on the boat and his kingsguard followed him. The boat he was on set forth first and the others with his men followed it.

Balerion dwindled in their wake, while the city grew larger with every stroke of the boat's oars. A harbor was visible off to his right, a tangle of piers and quays crowded with big-bellied whalers out of Ibben, swan ships from the Summer Isles, and more galleys than he could count. Another harbor, more distant, was off to his left, beyond a sinking point of land where the tops of half-drowned buildings thrust themselves above the water. Rhaegar had never seen so many big buildings all together in one place. King's Landing had the Red Keep and the Great Sept of Baelor and the Dragonpit, but Braavos seemed to boast a score of temples and towers and palaces that were as large or even larger.

The city had seemed like one big island from where the Titan stood, but as the men rowed them closer he saw that it was many small islands close together, linked by arched stone bridges that spanned innumerable canals. Beyond the harbor he glimpsed streets of grey stone houses, built so close they leaned one upon the other. To Rhaegar's eyes they were queer-looking, four and five stories tall and very skinny, with sharp-peaked tile roofs like pointed hats. He saw no thatch, and only a few timbered houses of the sort he knew in Westeros. They have no trees, he realized. Braavos is all stone, a grey city in a green sea.

Terys' crewmen swung them north of the docks and down the gullet of a great canal, a broad green waterway that ran straight into the heart of the city. They passed under the arches of a carved stone bridge, decorated with half a hundred kinds of fish and crabs and squids. A second bridge appeared ahead, this one carved in lacy leafy vines, and beyond that a third, gazing down on them from a thousand painted eyes. The mouths of lesser canals opened to either side, and others still smaller off of those. Some of the houses were built above the waterways, he saw, turning the canals into a sort of tunnel. Slender boats slid in and out among them, wrought in the shapes of water serpents with painted heads and upraised tails. Those were not rowed but poled, he saw, by men who stood at their sterns in cloaks of grey and brown and deep moss green. He saw huge flat-bottomed barges too, heaped high with crates and barrels and pushed along by twenty polemen to a side, and fancy floating houses with lanterns of colored glass, velvet drapes, and brazen figureheads. Off in the far distance, looming above canals and houses both, was a massive grey stone roadway of some kind, supported by three tiers of mighty arches marching away south into the haze. "What's that?" Rhaegar asked Denyo, pointing.

"The sweetwater river," the Braavosi told him. "It brings fresh water from the mainland, across the mudflats and the briny shallows. Good sweet water for the fountains."

When he looked behind him, the harbor and lagoon were lost to sight. A small canal ran through the big harbor and their boat streamed through it, cleaving through the collection of ships, galleys, whaler, barges and floating vessels of other kinds. There the oarsmen swung them right. They passed through a tunnel and out again into the light. More shrines loomed up to either side.

They went around a bend and beneath another bridge. On their left appeared a wooden dock covered with half a dozen colored clothes tied to poles which were sunk into the sea ground. Rhaegar wondered how long the poles originally were and how deep they were in the water. Beneath the canopy of colored clothes stood men of all ranges, from tall to short, from fat to lean, from old to young . . . all clothed in rich clothes of hundred colors which shamed the colored roof over their heads.

The oarsmen backed the oars, and the boat bumped gently against stone pilings. They grasped an iron ring set to hold them for a moment. Ser Gerold and Ser Oswell climbed out of the boat onto the wooden dock. Rhaegar stepped onto the wooden dock and his other two kingsguard flanked him.

A large old man in a red satin robe lined with rubies, opals, pearls, sapphires, onyx and other gemstones stepped forward with the others trailing behind him. From the way he was walking it seemed that it was hard for him to even walk with that cloth he was wearing. Rhaegar was sure that the old man would fall down even before he reached him but somehow he managed to walk to him without falling down.

"King Rhaegar," the old man said when he reached him, "I am Ferrego Antaryon, the Sealord of Braavos."

Rhaegar stepped forward. He nodded to the Sealord. There were more people than he had expected. Men of high status covered in their colored clothes, their guards whose weapons were as much different as their masters' dresses. He even saw a dothraki with a curved arakh and a long braid with ringing bells. Even the common folk gathered together in the higher grounds though it was still dark with only the faintest light of the dawn keeping the world alive.

"King Rhaegar," Tycho Nestoris followed the Sealord of Braavos with a grey man with a long beard reaching his neck beside him. "Welcome to Braavos. I hope you'll enjoy your stay here."

Rhaegar smiled at him. "I will."


	19. Chapter 19

_**Author's Notes: So to be honest, I'm tired of updating this story without any development in the reviews and readers side. Last few chapters were really hard to write and it was much harder to see them getting no actual recognition. So I've made my mind as to update this story further only if someone is willing. Leave a comment, say about it.**_

* * *

 ** _Andrew_**

The last night fell black and moonless, but for once the sky was clear. The grey fogs had given way to endless pits of dark which filled the world.

So many stars, he thought as he watched up the sky from the window of the forsaken wooden cabin. His mother had taught him his stars as a boy in Winterfell; he had learned the names of the twelve houses of heaven and the rulers of each; he could find the seven wanderers sacred to the Faith; he was old friends with the Ice Dragon, the Shadowcat, the Moonmaid, and the Sword of the Morning. All those he shared with the Braavosi, but not some of the others. We look up at the same stars, and see such different things. The King's Crown was the Cradle, to hear the Moonsingers tell it; the Stallion was the Horned Lord; the red wanderer that septons preached was sacred to their Smith up here was called the Red Lord. And when the Red Lord was in the Cradle, that was a propitious time to overcome all the evil, dark and terror that wanders this world, the red priests of R'hllor insisted. Is that true? he wondered. The world had never really been truly kind to him. For all he knew evil and terror always ruled this world whether the Red Lord was bright in the Cradle or not. Even if it had been true it was for them, not for me. He never truly belonged with them, never belonged here.

Though there were too many stars in the black night sky there was no mistaking his family, his father and mother. He found them just as easily as he could find the moon on a starry night and the sun on a cloudy day. There to the north, low and deep in the western horizon lived his family, the three stars twinkling in a straight line, lightly slanting to one side in the sky. His father was in the bottom end, big and steady looking as strong as always. His mother was at the top, bright and lively as always. Never has he seen someone or something brighter or lovelier than her. And there between them was little Andrew, a small blue star between the big star and the bright star, his father and his mother. He remembered a night sitting with his mother and father in the godswood of Winterfell looking at the stars. His mother was telling him about the stars. Andrew had been so afraid of being lonely that day after venturing into the cold crypts of Winterfell all alone. "Mama, you won't leave me alone will you?" He asked his mother. His mother held him close to her and pressed kisses to his cheeks. "Never," she had said pressing kisses all over his face. "If you ever felt lonely, Andrew, look up at them." She pointed at the three stars. "There is Mama," she pointed at mother. "And there is Papa," she pointed at father. "And there between us you are. My little Star-Lord." she pointed at little Andrew. "We will always be with you, Andrew. We will always be looking after you." His mother kissed his nose then making him laugh. He could almost feel how warm her kisses had been, how warm she had been. A mother's warmth. Andrew would gladly spend a cold night in the arms of his mother rather than warming up in the hot springs of Winterfell's godswood. There was no warmth for him now. My little Star-Lord, Lady Ashara Dayne had liked to call him. I am not even her little boy anymore. He had been three when his mother told him about his family. Thirteen years have passed and little Andrew stayed little while he grew.

"Are you looking at me now mother?" Andrew asked his mother. He turned to his father. "You father? Are you looking at me now?" He got no answers. "Look at me now," he told them, "Look at me kill him."

Andrew moved back from the windows and his parents. He had fastened the shutters back so as to keep a clear eye in everything happening outside. He had waited eleven years to make this happen and didn't want to miss it now that the opportunity has fallen into his hands. But there was nothing happening outside the window of Andrew's little room, only a wall of shifting grey fog. The air had grown chilly... and a good thing, else he might have fallen asleep. It would be just like Andrew to sleep through his own chance for justice. Killing Viserys had been an easy job to do. Instead of Andrew doing most of the works the Mad Dragon himself gave all the chances he had wanted and paid for it with his life. He knew that hunting down Rhaegar won't be as easy as Viserys. If the man was anything better than Viserys he would keep his guards close, and finish his work without any delay and return back to the safety of his castle.

Andrew had never wanted to take any chances to let him slip past his hands. Ballos had informed him about the King's visit to Braavos and ever since he was troubling over it. He sat against the wall and buried his head in his hands. Why am I so angry? he asked himself, but it was a stupid question. He is your family's killer. He killed your father, your mother, your uncle and a hundred other innocent men. You have every right to be angry at him.

On the day he had dealt with Viserys, his family had been with him. His mother, his father, uncle Arthur, uncle Aaron. Today it was not Lord Eddard's face he saw floating before him, or Lady Ashara's or Ser Arthur Dayne, though; it was Rhaegar's face. With his deep purple eyes and a meloncholic smile, he looked a bit like a good, kind man. A mask, he thought, he is naught but wearing a mask. He was looking at him the way he had looked at him at Starfall, when he had murdered his family. You are next? that look had always seemed to say. After them, it's your time.

Illola and her daughters were looking after the inn after Andrew had left them yestermorn. He knew that Rhaegar would never give him much of a chance like Viserys and he chose to use every chance he could get. He knew that the Sea Lord and the other nobles of the free city of Braavos would personally come to meet with the King of the Seven Kingdoms and that would give him a chance. It might be hard to get near him but Andrew hoped to end him during the pleasantries. He had made his lair in a little room at the top of a leaning three-storeyed building overlooking the Purple Harbor. He had a good vantage point and a good view of the colored platform made to welcome the King of the Seven Kingdoms. Across the cobbled stone street than ran beneath his building he could see the green water of the little canal below, two arches of the mossy bridges. On other days Braavos would be lost in fogs but that day it seemed clear enough to see the far end of the bridge through the greyness, and of the vague lights of the buildings across the canal.

Andrew leaned against the wall and took up his longbow, bending the smooth thick Dornish yew to slip a bowstring through the notches. He had got the longbow from a sellsword who had just made his way back from Westeros. During his time in the foghouse, the man used to sing songs of how lovely and deadly his bow was. He also talked of how lucky the bow was to save him many times in war, once in Tyrosh where he fought for the Lyseni and once in Lys where he fought for the Tyroshi. He even vowed that he wouldn't give up his bow even if he was offered the entire gold of Casterly Rock. Yet all his vows and talks did nothing when Andrew showed him a single gold dragon and the man practically threw him the bow as if it was no more than an empty cup. He even gave him the three arrows he had with the bow. With dark shafts and grey fletching, he couldn't find more decent arrows and didn't want to waste any of it. Andrew was a decent archer but his marksmanship was not as half as good as his swordsmanship. From his room high above the colored platform put up by the Braavosi to receive Rhaegar, he was sure that he could make the shot even there was a good seventy five yard distance between them.

He heard distant shouts and saw the guards and common folk from the lower docks to the upper stone way. Too many people. He hoped that they won't be a trouble for him or his plan.

The world was moonlight and shadow, and time became an endless round of sharpening Frost, the arrows and pulling the arrow string back to check its strength. He heard a soft splash as a serpent boat emerged beneath the bridge's central arch. "Oi, what hour?" Andrew called down to the man who stood by the snake's uplifted tail, pushing her onward with his pole.

The waterman gazed up, searching for the voice. "Four, by the Titan's roar." His words echoed hollowly off the swirling green waters and the walls of unseen buildings.

The stars and the moon gave way for the sun. More people came filling in, nobles of colored clothes and common people alike as the sun came up.

The sun came and went up and up in the sky, with still no sign of the King of the Seven Kingdoms. Andrew heard footsteps on the cobbled stone street beneath his building, though, and saw an old man walking to the harbor with a lantern to light his way. Andrew envied his light. His own lantern was on the verge of dying, the oil draining out.

As Dawn broke out, the world turned to the shade of a gloomy fire and the early morning sky was clear again. No clouds, thought Andrew. That was good. Rain or fog could doom him and everything he had waited for.

His eyes grew heavy with sleep and the eyelids drooped. Andrew opened them fast, faster than he had closed them. I should've slept more, he thought rubbing the sleep away from his eyes. There was no water to wash his face. The canal ran beneath but Andrew didn't want to go down and risk some clear shot. He never knew when he dozed next but he did. Suddenly somewhere to the south a warhorn blew waking him up from the sleep. It was no warhorn, Andrew knew. The Titan's roar. He is here. Andrew stood up and crossed the room and took his bow and arrows.

Motionless, Andrew Stark stood near the window looking down to the Purple Harbor. The air was full of mist and shouts. And Andrew waited for him. Waited in his little room with his bow and arrows.

Downstream to the Purple Harbor the path was blocked for commoners and highborn captains alike so as to make a clear way for Rhaegar Targaryen. At times the streams would be filled with rafts and carracks and ferries and rowboats borne on the current of the bigger canal but today they seemed abandoned.

The main canal from the purple harbor looked empty and Andrew stood near his window, waiting. . . watching. . . It felt like years waiting for Rhaegar in the room. The sight of a boat caught his eyes, or else the cloaks of the men on the boat. White cloaks streaming from the boats as flags would do from the tall masts of the ship. Uncle Arthur, Andrew thought. His bright sword, his bright armor and his bright smile. He desperately wished for his uncle to be with him now. Four, there were four white cloaks in the boat . . . and another dark cloak amidst them. The Kingsguard and their King.

A dozen other boats followed the first one but none of that was Andrew's concern. He never gave them a second look but for the first boat. The boats reached the colored dock and Andrew saw him when he climbed onto the dock. His long silver hair was in contrast to his dark clothing, and an eerily beautiful grace clung onto him like perfume. Andrew can't see his face clearly but he was sure that Rhaegar Targaryen was wearing his mask. And he was, there was the same easy smile plastered on his face when the pleasantries were over and he turned for Andrew to see him.

Let's see how pretty your face looks when I put an arrow through it, Andrew notched an arrow to the string, raised his bow and drew. Rhaegar Targaryen was still well far away from him, so he led him waiting, waiting. . .

Andrew pulled the goose feather back to his ear, aimed, and waited, waited for the right time to loose. The crowd of people made it difficult for him to even see his target. There were more targets for him now with Rhaegar's guards and the Braavosi noblemen and commoners alike. For a heartbeat, he missed Rhaegar in the crowd and lowered his bow to search for him. He found him or rather his hair, flanked by the Kingsguard, and the Kingsguard flanked by black cloaked Targaryen guardsmen. He got a clear shot at Rhaegar, but before he could take it some other bald man took the place of the silver head. Andrew sighed again and raised his bow again. Again and again, he got a clean shot at Rhaegar Targaryen, only for some common folk get in the way before he could take his shot.

Give me one clean shot at Rhaegar, he prayed to his father's gods and his mother's. It would take only one arrow for this to end. Give me Rhaegar.

His fingers were growing stiff and his thumb was bleeding, but still, Andrew notched and drew but never loosed. Rhaegar was getting away from him, slowly and gradually. Andrew was tempted to take the risk and loose an arrow with luck. If he was lucky enough the arrow might find itself lodged on to Rhaegar or else it may give away his spot and thwart all of his plans.

Rage filled within him with the thought of Rhaegar slipping from his hands. He never knew that he possessed this kind of rage. He should die, a voice inside him said. He killed your family, he should die. Andrew threw the bow down and took Frost from the ground. He vaulted out of the window and landed on the roof of the next building. Braavos was a crooked city. The buildings were built crooked but crowded.

Andrew moved over the stone roof, balanced lightly on the slanting roof, listening to the flutter of his heart, breathing slow deep breaths. A fall from here was a good twenty feet to ground. It may even cost his life. But something deep in him urged him to move on.

He ran halfway across the roof of the building and vaulted onto the next one near it, before jumping down the the inner bailey and running through the wooden planks, down the serpentine stone steps, past the small kitchen of some inn and jumping over a canal of four feet wide before climbing onto another building, stepping onto the crates, before jumping onto the kitchen roof and then to the main, coming down from the roof of a small house built right of over a canal running underneath it. He crossed a lichen covered bridge and ran along the canal wall and up more steps and back, and then down again and through a gate and passing through in and out of strange buildings until Andrew reached the crowd which was formed by Rhaegar Targaryen's arrival.

He passed through the crowd keeping Frost tight in his hand. Through the center, Rhaegar Targaryen walked amidst his Kingsguard and his endless guards. Andrew bowled past, shoving people aside, pushing them away, slamming into anyone in his way. When he came out from the crowd, he could see Rhaegar amidst his men. When he drew Frost from the sheath, he had no time to think after that. Two men in Targaryen cloaks moved to him. "Back now, lad," one of them said. Andrew cut off his extended arm and buried Frost deep into the other guard's throat even before he could draw his longsword from his scabbard. He moved so fast that everyone saw him only when the maimed guard's scream shrieked through the calm morning air. The madness sprung at once when the commoners all shrieked alike in fear and pushed and pulled over one another trying to get away from the place.

A warhorn blew to alert the men. Haroooooooooooooooooooooooo, it cried, its voice as long and low and chilling as a cold wind from the north. Rhaegar was surrounded by his Kingsguard and his other guardsmen and the guards of the Braavosi rushed to their masters.

Rhaegar's guards formed a circle around him, moving back to their ranks as soon as the warning horn blew. The sellswords and the other guards of the Braavosi nobles weren't so wise or disciplined as the men of Westeros. They charged at him and Andrew moved against them his white jacket streaming in the wind. Andrew held his ground against four men swinging and slashing Frost all around him. He saw more men coming at him from the corner of his eyes and getting cornered would mean death. Andrew found the opening with a man with a blue beard and caught him alongside his head, taking off half his head. A Dothraki came next to take the place of blue beard and took his place in death as well. Andrew ducked down a savage slash of his arakh and cut open his belly, spilling up his insides. He never stopped with the Dothraki but brought Frost in a deadly arc gutting two more men before getting back to his feet. He opened a Targaryen spearman from shoulder to armpit before severing off the leg of a dark summer islander and ending his torture by lopping off his head.

His sword sheared off limbs, cracked heads, broke shields asunder. With the everyone reaching to him falling down mortally injured or dead the other guards sought out to take their masters to safety. The Braavosi with their multiple guardsmen ran for their life while the Westerosi moved as a unit with their king safe amidst them.

Frost was light as a feather in his fist as he wielded the valyrian steel sword all around him. A handful still fought him, the rest dead or fled. He had to take a breathe to get those men as well. Andrew lodged Frost deep into the armpit of a man before slashing the throat of another one behind him. He took a small breath using the break he got and pressed on the attack before the others begin. Frost cut through leather and flesh as if it was butter and Andrew heard anguished screams and shrieks around him. One sword managed to scrape at his arm before flying off to almost fifteen feet away from him and he thrust Frost right through the heart of the wielder.

In the commotion the people caused it was hard for Rhaegar's guard to move their king over, unlike the individual Braavosi. Andrew charged at them. He cut a bloody path through the guards in order to get to Rhaegar. He slashed opened a man's throat, cracking another one's skull soon after it, severing a man's hand which fell at halfway trying to hack at his head. Frost stuck once while he drove it through the eye of the another. He left it there and leaned back when the man to his left slashed at him overhead trying to split him in half from head to groin. Andrew caught his hand when the man missed his slash at him wildly and pulled the man to him, driving his elbow against his nose and yanking the blade away from him. He mislaid the stolen blade in someone else's throat but had an opening to retrieve Frost from the dead man's eye.

Men were crawling all around him, men butchered and bleeding, coughing up blood, staggering, most dying. He moved further for Rhaegar, delivering quicker cleaner deaths to those strong enough to stand.

His white jacket and the white shirt inside it were covered in blood, more of his enemies' blood than his. The battle fever. He had never thought to experience it himself, though Syrio told him of it often enough during his training. How time seemed to blur and slow and even stop, how the past and the future vanished until there was nothing but the instant, how fear fled, and thought fled, and even your body. "You don't feel your wounds then, or the ache in your back and your shoulders from the weight of your sword, or the sweat running down into your eyes. You stop feeling, you stop thinking, you stop being you, there is only the fight, the foe, this man and then the next and the next and the next, and you know they are afraid and tired but you're not, you're alive, and death is all around you but their swords move so slowly, you can dance through them laughing." Battle fever. Let this fever end in justice. Justice with Rhaegar Targaryen's death.

The Targaryen guards tried again. Another spearman ran at him. Andrew stepped away from the head of his spear, and cut his hand, then his arm, moving around him in a circle. Another man, wielding a dirk, thrust at him, holding it as if it were a knife. All Andrew needed was to stay away from him and let Frost do the work. The valyrian steel reached the man easy enough, cutting through to his chest easy as a knife slices off a cake.

A man-at-arms tried to thrust at Andrew's face with his sword. He knocked the blade aside and buried Frost in the nape of the man's neck. He could almost see Rhaegar now, safe between his kingsguard. Andrew reached for him with Frost only to be stopped by a golden sword of a kingsguard knight. When Andrew pressed his attack at him his brother came to his side with a spear making him back to defend himself. You should've stood for my uncle. He was your brother too. His rage followed him after that and Andrew pressed forward to meet them.

He raised his sword and drove at them, Frost alive in his hands. The white knight with his golden sword jumped back, parrying, but he followed, pressing the attack. No sooner did he turn one cut of the golden sword than the thrust from the spear was upon him. Frost kissed the golden sword and sprang apart and kissed the spearhead. Andrew felt tired. He was fighting tired, with death balanced on every stroke. Frost felt heavy as lead in his hands which forced him to use a two-handed grip. It wouldn't take much. Two more songs and this dance is over.

High, low, overhand, he rained down steel upon the white brothers. Left, right, backslash, swinging so hard that sparks flew when the swords came together, upswing, sideslash, overhand, always attacking, moving into them, step and slide, strike and step, step and strike, hacking, slashing, faster, faster, faster . . .

. . . until, breathless, he stepped back for a moment of respite. The kingsguard knights had their strength though. The edge of the golden sword found its way to slash his clothes and skin alike. The spearhead almost succeeded in piercing him, hadn't he moved in time half of the weirwood shaft would have come through his back.

Andrew took a slow deep breath. He whirled the blade back up above his head and flew at them again.

Andrew could not have said how long he pressed the attack. It might have been minutes or it might have been hours; time slept when swords woke.

One of the slashes from the golden sword raked across his brow, and blood ran down into his right eye. He cursed and moved for them again using his skill and speed. Frost scraped past the parry of the golden sword and bit into the kingsguard's upper thigh. A red flower blossomed in the white cloth and before Andrew could end him the weirwood spear stopped him. He turned away from the savage thrust and caught the white shaft at halfway. One slash across it and the weirwood broke in half with a loud crack. Andrew thrust the spearhead at the white knight and lodged it between shoulder and breastplate, the blow clattering off the white armor. The knight went down. By then his brother came back at him, limping.

The wound Andrew gave him seemed to fester and rot his skill. He was not swinging his golden sword as quickly as he'd done earlier, nor raising it as high. Andrew soon found the opening when the kingsguard knight lunged forward trying to stab at his throat. Too close, Andrew thought as he turned the blade away before driving Frost right through the knight's ribs in one fluidic motion. Blood gushed out in a scarlet fountain, drenching the long white sleeve of his jacket and his arm. The lifeless body of the knight fell to the ground when he pulled Frost free from him with the clang of his golden sword following his corpse.

The rush of the people hadn't stopped even after he had come all this way from the start. He wondered how many people had been here before everything set loose. Andrew saw the other knight on his feet again with a sword in his hand in place of the weirwood spear. He was about to move for him when he felt a throbbing ache in his right thigh. When he looked down, he was surprised to see an arrow jutting out the back of it. When did that happen? Before he could find the answer for it another blow in the chest pushed him back. Andrew looked at the way of the arrows and found them. There were dark shapes in the high stone buildings across the platform, slipping out from the dark, facing the windows, backs against the stone with bows in their hands. He was late to move when another arrow sunk in his waist just above the hipbone.

He saw Rhaegar, still safe behind his kingsguard. He saw his other guards now circling around him as if he was a wounded animal. Andrew cut down the first man as he stepped closer, shoved past a second, slashed at a third. Through the madness he heard someone yell, but whether it was directed at him or the archers he could not say. He caught the spear of a guard from his right and directed the iron tip to another guard at his right. Andrew caught the arm of the spearman and twisted it behind his back. Keeping the guard to the front he moved for the canals as another flight of arrows took to air. He heard the soft sound of arrows plunging into meat followed by the dying shriek of the man. One arrow crossed both of them and plunged against the hard packed ground between the cobblestones. Andrew stepped past it, walking as fast as his legs could take him. His wounded leg buckled under him, and he had to swallow a scream. The man-shield was heavy in his arms and every step felt harder than the one before. Arrows rained again, falling all around him. He saw the green water of the canal and jumped into the cold water with the dead man.

He heard a short sharp woof, as if someone had blown in his ear. Green water smashed him across the face, filling his nose and mouth. He was choking, drowning. Unsure which way was up, Andrew wrestled the river in blind panic until suddenly he broke the surface. He spat out water, sucked in air and submerged again under the water when he saw men searching for him.

The current had him in its teeth by then, spinning him around and around. He kicked and tried to keep away from the land. Upstream, Andrew thought, if they searched for him they would go downstream to the harbor. There was only a little chance for a man wounded so terribly as him to have the strength to swim upstream against the current.

But Andrew was a strong swimmer. Years of swimming in the hot springs of Winterfell and then in the canals of Braavos made him a better swimmer than most men.

He sucked in a great gulp of air and dove, kicking for the bottom of the river. His only hope was to stay underwater and to swim hard away from the guards as far as he can. Andrew held onto Frost tightly as he knifed through the green murk. He swam past a wooden plank and a wooden crate, kicking with all the strength left in his legs, pushing himself up against the current, the water filling his eyes. Deeper he went, and deeper, and deeper still. With every stroke it grew harder to hold his breath. He remembered seeing the bottom, soft and dim, as a stream of bubbles burst from his lips. Something touched his leg . . . a snag or a fish or some arrow Rhaegar's guards had loosed at him, he could not tell.

He needed air by then, but he was not sure about coming to the surface. He twisted in the water to look up, but there was nothing to see but green darkness and then he spun too far and suddenly he could no longer tell up from down. Panic took hold of him. His hands flailed against the bottom of the river and sent up a cloud of mud that blinded him. His chest was growing tighter by the instant. He clawed at the water, kicking, pushing himself, turning, his lungs screaming for air, kicking, kicking, lost now in the river murk, kicking, kicking, kicking until he could kick no longer.

When he came back to the surface, Andrew flailed for something to grab on to, knowing that once he went down he was not like to come back up. Somehow his hand found the stone edge of the canal. Clutching it tight as a desperate lover, he shinnied up foot by foot. His eyes were full of water, his arms and clothes were full of blood, and his entire head and body throbbed horribly. Gods give me strength to reach the ground . . . He prayed to his gods, both his father's and mother's.

He pulled at the stone edge with all his might. Finally, he rolled over the side and lay breathless and exhausted, flat on his back. He looked to his sides and found everything empty aside for some old buildings and the rush of water.

How did I swim all this way with a sword in one hand? That was another question he could not answer.

Andrew put Frost down beside him and looked down at the arrow in his leg. He grabbed hold of the shaft on his thigh and gave it a tug, but the arrowhead was sunk deep in the meat of his leg, and the pain when he pulled on it was excruciating. He tried to think back on the madness he passed, but all he could remember was the arrows and the pain.

This is going to be agony. The arrow had to come out, though, and nothing good could come of waiting. Andrew curled his hand around the fletching, took a deep breath, and shoved the arrow forward. He grunted, then cursed. It hurt so much he had to stop. I am bleeding like a butchered pig, he thought, but there was nothing to be done for it until the arrow was out. He grimaced and tried again . . . and soon stopped again, trembling. Once more. This time he screamed, but when he was done the arrowhead was poking through the back of his thigh. Andrew pushed back his bloody breeches to get a better grip, grimaced, and slowly drew the shaft through his leg.

He lay on the ground afterward, clutching his prize and bleeding quietly, too weak to move. He knew that he was like to bleed to death. He looked up at the sky and found his father and mother peering down at him. All he needed to do was nothing. A few moments more, and he would be with his family now. "Look, I'm coming to you mama," he said to his mother, chuckling and wincing at the pain. "I'll see you soon papa," gritting his teeth he told his father.

He turned his head and waited. The sun came closer to him as he waited. That makes no sense, thought Andrew. The sun never shone brightly in Braavos. This is death, he thought. If this is death, it is beautiful.


	20. Chapter 20

**_Rhaegar_**

The palace was a stony island in a sea of grey.

It took Rhaegar half his strength to climb up. By the time he reached up he was gasping for air. His muscles ached, and he felt as if he had the beginnings of a fever. That day, he remembered. Everything had started with that day. The rocks had scraped his hands raw when he had stayed safe against them. They are better than they were, though, he decided as he picked at a broken blister.

The palace loomed larger from up here. The Braavosi had taken to calling it Dragonstone, after the ancient citadel which was the ancestral seat of the Targaryens. The building looked nothing like Dragonstone, but the people called it so after all this was the first time the Braavosi were seeing a dragon. Smoothened stones and brushed marbles formed the building; stones and slabs of marbles higher than any normal man. All throughout the sides gilded panes were set making the walls glimmer in the light. Though it was called Dragonstone, the palace never felt home.

Each morning, from the western ramparts, the king would count the sails on the grey-green waters of the Braavosi lagoon where the narrow sea and the Shivering sea met.

Today he counted five-and-twenty, though some were far away and moving, so it was hard to be certain. Sometimes he missed one, or counted one twice. What does it matter? A man only needs ten fingers to strangle the life out of one. All trade in Braavos had stopped, and the fisherfolk did not dare put out into the bay. The boldest still dropped a few lines through the grey-green rivers of Braavos, though even that was hazardous with a killer on the loose; more of the ships and cogs and others of the kind remained tied up in the Purple Harbor and the Ragman Harbor.

From his castle he could see water everywhere all running throughout Braavos like the nerves would to a man. Beneath his palace, a slender thread glittered briefly against the light of the rising. A stream. Small, but it would lead to a larger stream, and that stream would flow into some little river, and that little river would join itself to a canal and all the canals in this city of Braavos would lead to the Long Canal, the broadest of all the waterways in Braavos. Once he found the Long Canal he need only follow it downstream to the Purple Harbor. And there he would find the whoreson who had tried to kill him the very first day he entered Braavos. Or rather that's what everyone told him except they never did anything of what they told. Rhaegar had been too occupied with everything that was happening around him and was too stupid to hear their words. He should've called back his men and send them upstream the Long Canal and dispatched them off to every canal which broke off it in search for him. If the man was half as clever as the warrior he was he would've gone upstream that way he could've turned their search a hundred times harder and could've wasted most of their time with the endless branch canals of the Long Canal. In the end he did just that, fooling all of them.

All the while they were searching in the downstream for him the son of a bitch had managed to sneak his way upstream and then up through some canal and then to a river and then to a stream and hence he might have ended up at some end of this endless city. And now they might want to sweep off this entire city in order to find him. And searched him they did but they could not find him.

Two days have already past and still, there was no word about the assassin. His archers promised him that their shots had been sure and there was no way a man could escape from that. Still, Rhaegar did not see or hear about a corpse strewn with arrows. He had asked the Lord Commander of his Kingsguard to sent men to all the maesters in Braavos. Even if the arrows hadn't managed to kill the assassin it would surely bleed him to death or fester the wound further into infection unless he finds a right maester to mend it. There was no desired outcome in that part as well. No one came to the maesters with an arrow shot. Still, the King kept his faith that someone would bring him the butchered body of the bastard.

Once again Janos Slynt's words had proved worse than useless. "No one is said to have seen a corpse struck down by arrows," Slynt said. "The only corpses my men could find were five terribly disfigured, the bodies of the people who were trampled to death in the commotion caused by the assassin. And of course a good number of our men and the Braavosi guards and sellswords but none was found struck down by arrows."

Rhaegar had seen the bloody corpses of course. He had terribly wanted for one of them to be the assassin. But they were only some unfortunate smallfolk who were stepped to death by the people gathered there. Three men, two too old to be the assassin and one too young, some boy of nine or ten and a woman with her child, none of them bore a wound of arrow shot.

"I never asked you to count the assassin's kill, Janos," Rhaegar said. "You are the commander of the city watch, are you not?" "Commander of the city watch of King's Landing, Your Grace."

"King's Landing, Braavos, what difference does it make?" Rhaegar looked at the frog-faced man. "If you cannot follow the king's orders, Janos, perhaps the CityWatch should be commanded by someone who can."

Stout, jowly Janos Slynt puffed himself up like an angry frog, his bald pate reddening. "Half my men died to the assassin's blade and the other half is missing. I've put up a ragged band from the remnants of our men in the search party, men who are hurt, harmed and frightened. I need more men."

"Get all the men you want from Braavosi. They are involving themselves in this search as well."

"Most of the Braavosi nobles shut themselves in their palaces with men all around them. The sea lord himself has isolated himself in his palace and barred his doors. And the reports of their finding is no less than a jape. They accuse us of disturbing their peace, that before Your Grace and Prince Viserys arrived here they were all fine and good. They even claim that this is the Dragons' Doom, the same one which doomed Valyria now returned back to claim its last line."

Their bitterness dismayed him, so much so that Rhaegar found himself wondering if the Braavosi smallfolk themselves is hiding this assassin to kill him. At least the nobles were with him. He's been hearing from the Braavosi as well but their reports too were no much better than Slynt's. "Join your men with the Braavosi and work together. Now, Leave."

"As you say, Your Grace." Slynt said bowing. When the commander had taken his leave, Rhaegar Targaryen turned to his kingsguard. Four had come with him but only three stood beside him now, Ser Gerold, Ser Barristan and Ser Lewyn who was injured. Ser Jaime Lannister was returning to Lannisport covered in his white cloak to rest with his forefathers in Casterly Rock. Rhaegar knew that Tywin Lannister would blame him for his death just like he had blamed his father for naming his precious heir in the Kingsguard. That's one on his head too now, calming the Lion of the west. Though Ser Jaime Lannister did his duty as the kingsguard and gave his life to protect his king, his father would claim otherwise as if Rhaegar himself took Ser Jaime in this journey to kill him. Damn him. Damn the assassin. Damn them all. He turned to Ser Gerold "How well do we fare here, Ser Gerold?"

The White Bull had a plain look about his face. Though he never tried to show it Rhaegar could see it on the knight's face. They mourn for their brother, just like they had done to Arthur. "The guards have been doubled throughout the palace, Your Grace," Ser Gerold said. "There are men at every entrance and archers at every high end."

I had men around me on that day as well, for all that it is worth. The assassin had almost managed to get his hands on him if not for the archers he had sent to provide overwatch. Ser Gerold and Ser Barristan had been his last line of defence. His front lines were falling steadily to one man. He remembered seeing white jacket streaming in the cold morning air, black hair, dark as midnight and a blue sword twirling and slashing, waking blood all along the way it turned.

That much he could recall, though much of what happened was a haze. So many people, screaming and shoving. He remembered Ser Jaime fall, Ser Lewyn falling and arrows punching, a food cart spilling melons as it overturned, a splash of water. From above arrows came flying, followed by a flight of crossbow bolts from the men on the ground. All vanished beneath the green waters of the Long Canal with a pop. He remembered the men twisting around him, dying and screaming, as he stayed behind his men in safety. Men were loosing bolts in the water trying to get another hit. None dared to enter the canal, whether they were afraid of the assassin or the green waters of the Braavosi canal he couldn't say. When Rhaegar came away from the safety of his men, he saw men whirling, twisting in agony. Most had lost their limbs and the others mortally injured. A woman in a green gown reached for a weeping child, pulling him down into her arms to shield him from the fight. Rhaegar saw the color vividly, but not the woman's face. People were stepping on her as they lay tangled on the cobbled stone. Dozens of men died that day both his and the Braavosi and their sellswords and guards of other kinds, along with a kingsguard.

Though through the frenzy Rhaegar could swear that he saw a pair of grey eyes, cold and unyielding. So much like the one he had once seen before. No, it can't be, he brushed the thought away. It can't be. They are dead. It is just my imagination.

"What do you think about all of this, Ser?"

"Your Grace," Ser Gerold raised his eyebrow. "It is not my place to counsel you."

Rhaegar smiled at him. "Well speak freely, Ser. You are the lord commander of the kingsguard and you have a place in my small council. So tell us, Ser Gerold, what should we make of this situation?"

The old knight stood stiff. "If truth be told, Your Grace, the assassin might as well be lying dead in the bottom of some canal. He was shot thrice, one in the leg and twice in his upper body. Without a maester the man will either die of blood loss or of a mortified wound."

"One can know how to fix wounds, though." The day might come soon when he would have to see this dead man again. "Maybe he could've known how to patch himself up."

"Maybe, Your Grace," Ser Gerold admitted.

"And if he does will he come again?"

"He may come again, Your Grace."

"And what do you suggest we should do then?" Rhaegar asked.

"Let me speak frankly, Your Grace," Ser Gerold paused waiting for his approval. He continued when he nodded. "Don't overstay your welcome here like your brother did, Your Grace. Finish your work here and leave as soon as you can."

"You'd have me run?" Rhaegar asked him. "Run from some assassin filth who killed my brother?"

"I'm not telling you to run away from him, Your Grace," Ser Gerold replied. "Only that you leave this city. This is a hidden city, Your Grace. Even the Dragonlords of Old Valyria could not see this city from atop their dragons. You don't know what this city has for you and that's the strength of the assassin who knows this city very well. We never knew he was there until he was upon us with a sword. Leave this city and if somehow the assassin came back for you, let him come back to King's Landing."

King's Landing, Rhaegar stayed over that thought for some time. Yes, Yes... Let him come to King's Landing.

* * *

 _ **Author's Notes: So here it is, the aftermath of all that's happened. Thanks for reading the story and for the reviews and follows and favorites. Leave a review.**_

 _ **Replies to Guests.**_

 _ **To Guest(1) on chapter 19: Thanks for the comment mate. I really appreciate it.**_

 _ **To Guest(2) on chapter 19: Thank you very much for the appreciation. As I've already told Andrew's story is mainly inspired by the Arthurian legends. So yes their will be parallels and yes, Howland Reed, Littlefinger and the Three eyed rave will play a big part in the story. Also Frost(Andrew's sword) is designed with Excalibur in my mind, it is made with magic that's why it is so cold to touch. And yes, if your offer to be the beta still stands, I'm very much glad to take this up with you. So if you still interested in that PM me as you said.**_

 _ **To Guest(3): Thanks mate. Thanks for the appreciation.**_

 _ **To Guest(4): Wouldn't that be a sight? But who knows, maybe that will happen or something else might.**_


	21. Chapter 21

**_Daenerys_**

She was breaking her fast on a bowl of cold shrimp-and-persimmon soup when her seamstress brought her a ornate gown, an airy confection of ivory samite patterned with seed pearls. "Take it away," Dany said. "The dining table is no place for lady's finery."

The dress was made for the upcoming marriage of her nephew to Arianne Martell and Dany would do her part as a royal princess. When she went to the stables, she wore faded sandsilk pants and soft leather sandals. Her small breasts moved freely beneath a smooth linen gown of deep blue, and her vest was secured by her ruby studded belt. Her handmaidens had braided her hair in an intricate fashion with three separate braids overlapping from the sides to join into a single one in the back of her head. Her kingly brother would disagree her choice of dress though. "You're a princess of House Targaryen, the blood of Aegon the Dragon and you should look like one," her brother would say whenever he finds her as such and Dany didn't wanted to make any scene in her nephew's wedding.

With all that was going on with her nephew's marriage, Dany could only imagine how her own marriage would be. Willas Tyrell seemed to be a sweet guy for a cripple. He courted her gently, always being sweet with her with only a merest brush of his lips on the back of her hand or her cheek. He had an unrequited love for animals, horses, dogs, cats and other birds which followed to her dragons as well. He always seemed happy to see Drogon as well. Dany thought that he would not be so bad a husband to have. Moreover the Tyrells had the largest army and are the richest house in Westeros second only to the Lannisters. Dany was only a little girl but even she knew that an alliance with the Reach would mean much for them if another rebellion was to occur. After all you could only burn the castles and cities with dragons but an army is needed to take and hold them.

Dany mounted her silver mare with Ser Jorah and the bastard of Driftmark, Aurane Waters beside her. The newly made Master of Ships had offered her to show her the newly made ships in replacement for the ones drowned in the recent storm after Viserys death. The storm had been the worse, worser even than the one during her birth. It had claimed a good part of the royal Targaryen fleet along with Vhagar and Meraxes, the huge war galleys which formed the central piece of the Targaryen arsenal in the sea along with their sister, Balerion. Only Balerion remained now and the storm had really left them in a bad way.

They left the high red walls of the Red Keep behind and made their way through a poorer part of the city where modest brick houses turned blind walls to the street. There were fewer horses and nobles to be seen, and a dearth of palanquins, but the streets teemed with children, beggars, and rats the color of dusk. Pale skinny men in dusty linen tunic stood beneath arched doorways to watch them pass. They know who I am, and they do not love me. Dany could tell from the way they looked at her.

Ser Jorah would sooner have tucked her inside her palanquin, safely hidden behind silken curtains, but she refused him. She had reclined too long on satin cushions, letting horses bear her hither and yon. At least when she rode she felt as though she was getting somewhere. Though eventually Ser Jorah agreed with her, it was only half-heartedly. Dany had took him into her service when she'd turned fourteen. He had come back from his exile in Essos after hearing Eddard Stark's demise in the hands of her brother. The Usurper had wanted his head after some trifling affront. He had sold some poachers to a Tyroshi slaver instead of giving them to the Night's Watch. Absurd law, Dany thought. A man should be able to do as he likes with his own chattel. If her brother had ruled the north then, he would never have troubled Ser Jorah for it. When Ser Jorah came to her last year he was an older man, past forty and balding, but still strong and fit. He was different in the southern court. Instead of silks and cottons like the southron lords, he wore wool and leather. She had asked him to accompany her to the harbor today. Despite the heat of the day, Ser Jorah wore his green wool surcoat over chainmail, the black bear of Mormont sewn on his chest.

The sound of some hubbub in the street intruded on her worries. Dany peered out cautiously to her right. They were passing through Cobbler's Square, where a sizable crowd had gathered beneath the leather awnings to listen to the rantings of a prophet. A robe of undyed wool belted with a hempen rope marked him for one of the begging brothers.

"Corruption!" the man cried shrilly. "There is the warning! Behold the Father's scourge!" He pointed at the fuzzy red wound in the sky. From this vantage, the distant castle on Aegon's High Hill was directly behind him, with the comet hanging forebodingly over its towers. A clever choice of stage, Dany reflected. "We have become swollen, bloated, foul. Foul lizards kill Kings under their roof, and murders babies in their mothers' arms. Whores who steal married men from their wives are called as Queens. And the festered things fornicates over the blood and brains of innocent children which still wets their cursed bed! Even the High Septon has forgotten the gods! He bathes in scented waters and grows fat on lark and lamprey while his people starve! Pride comes before prayer, maggots rule our castles, and gold is all . . . but no more! The Rotten Summer is at an end, and the Mad Prince is brought low! When the assassin did broke him, a great stench rose to heaven and his skin and brain soaked the earth and his blood flows as a river, as red and corrupted as his tainted blood!" He jabbed his bony finger back at comet and castle. "There comes the Harbinger! Cleanse yourselves, the gods cry out, lest ye be cleansed! Bathe in the wine of righteousness, or you shall be bathed in fires of hell! Hell!"

"Hell!" other voices echoed, but the hoots of derision almost drowned them out. Dany took solace from that. She gave the command to continue, and they moved through the erupted crowd like a ship on a rough sea as her guards cleared a path. Foul Lizards indeed. The wretch did have a point about the High Septon, to be sure. What was it that Moon Boy had said of him the other day? A pious man who worships the Seven so fervently that he eats a meal for each of them whenever he sits to table. The memory of the fool's jape made Dany smile.

Scores of tales and rumors had come up with the rise of the comet, the Bleeding Star. The old men muttered that it omened ill, but Daenerys Targaryen had seen it first on a night a few days after her visit to the House of Undying. Thousands of tales revolved around the comet. Commoners believed that it marked the end of House Targaryen and the dragons. Another tale said that it is the justification of Viserys' death by the gods while some others claimed that the gods were mourning her brother. While some bold men declared that the bleeding star was the tears of the Queen Ashara Dayne, the shining star of Westeros and the Queen in the North. They said of how great the greif of Queen Ashara's was for her husband, her son and her brother before she died and it was her tears which turned into a blasting comet coming down to doom them.

She has heard the stories before, of King Eddard, the King in the North and his Queen, Ashara Dayne. Dany had only been a babe at her wetnurse's breast when Eddard Stark declared his northern kingdom independent and turned traitor to her brother, Stark's rightful king. The Usurper dog hid well in his northern castle afraid to face her brother. In the end Rhaegar delivered justice for the Usurper and his family and punished them for their betrayal. Dany was only a little girl when Eddard Stark, Ashara Dayne and their son were executed for plotting against their rightful king. Almost eleven years have passed since the deed was done but still there were hushed talks about it among the people.

Dany never heard of women's tears turning magic. There was a waterfall in the high mountains of the Eyrie called as Alyssa's Tears. A strange thought passed her of what if the comet was Ashara Dayne's tears. Even if it was true the Queen in the North was long dead with her husband and son, surely her tears wouldn't have waited this many years to doom them. Her tears would've dried to her bones by now.

The streets grew emptier as they passed through the narrow, curving Hook after their descend from Aegon's High Hill. The curved pathway which would take them straight to the River Gate. Her guards went before her and behind, leaving Ser Jorah Mormont and Aurane Waters at her side. Her mare's hooves clicked against the ground softly, and Dany found her thoughts returning to the Palace of Dust once more, as the tongue returns to a space left by a missing tooth.

Child of three, they had called her, daughter of death, mother of dragons, child of storm. So many threes. Three fires, three mounts to ride, three treasons. "The dragon has three heads," she sighed. "Do you know what that means, Jorah?"

"My princess? The sigil of House Targaryen is a three-headed dragon, red on black."

"I know that. But there are no three-headed dragons."

"The three heads were Aegon and his sisters."

"Visenya and Rhaenys," she recalled. "I am descended from Aegon and Rhaenys through their son Aenys and their grandson Jaehaerys."

"Blue lips speak only lies, isn't that what Maester Pylos told you? Why do you care what the warlocks whispered? All they wanted was to suck the life from you, you know that now."

"Perhaps," she said reluctantly. "Yet the things I saw . . . "

"A blue star dying off in fire and blood, a king with a frozen crown, a pair of cold grey eyes . . . what does any of it mean, Princess? gods' son and mummer's hero, you said. Who is this gods' son and this mummer's hero, pray?"

"Just a hero in name," Dany explained. "Mummers use their likes in their follies, making up things just to give the heroes something to fight. I don't know about this gods' son though."

Ser Jorah frowned.

Dany could not let it go. "His is the song of ice and fire, my brother said. I'm certain it was my brother. Not Viserys, Rhaegar. He had a harp with silver strings."

Ser Jorah's frown deepened until his eyebrows came together. "Prince Rhaegar played such a harp once," he conceded. "You saw him in the House of Undying?"

She nodded. "There was a woman in a bed with a babe at her breast, not my brother's wife though or Aegon. My brother said the babe was the prince that was promised and told her to name him Aegon, same as my nephew."

"Prince Aegon was Rhaegar's heir by Elia of Dorne," Ser Jorah said. "But if he was this prince that was promised, the promise was burnt along with him when your fa-, when he died with your father in King's Landing."

"I remember," Dany said sadly. "Rhaegar's daughter died as well, the little princess. Rhaenys, she was named, like Aegon's sister. There was no Visenya, but my brother says the dragon has three heads. He says that it is Aegon, Jaeherys and me but we are not like Aegon, Rhaenys and Visenya, are we? Is it true what he says about the song of ice and fire?"

"It's no song I've ever heard."

"I went to the warlocks hoping for answers, but instead they've left me with a hundred new questions."

By the time they reached Fishmonger Square there were people in the streets once more. "Make way," her guards shouted, holding back the crowd with the shafts of their spears. The unshaven and the unwashed stared at the riders with dull resentment from behind the line of spears. They passed through a riot of stalls and curses and groups of people. A mummer on stilts was striding through the throngs like some great insect, with a horde of barefoot children trailing behind him, hooting. Elsewhere, two ragged boys no older than seven were dueling with sticks, to the loud encouragement of some and the furious curses of others. An old woman ended the contest by leaning out of her window and emptying a bucket of slops on the heads of the combatants. In the shadow of the wall, farmers stood beside their wagons, bellowing out, "Apples, the best apples, cheap at twice the price," and "Blood melons, sweet as honey," and "Turnips, onions, roots, here you go here, here you go, turnips, onions, roots, here you go here."

They passed through the market square beside the River Gate, as it was named on maps, or the Mud Gate, as it was commonly called.

Winesinks, warehouses, and small houses lined the streets, cheek by jowl with cheap brothels and the stalls of street vendors. Cutpurses, cutthroats, spellsellers, and moneychangers mingled with every crowd. Fishmonger Square was one great marketplace where the buying and selling went on all day and all night, and goods might be had for a fraction of what they cost at other places, if a man did not ask where they came from. Wizened old women sat with their wooden planks of fish, clams, oysters and other sea food negotiating prices with the buyers. Seamen from half a hundred nations wandered amongst the stalls, drinking spiced liquors and trading jokes in queer-sounding tongues. The air smelled of salt and frying fish, of hot tar and honey, of dirt and stench and oil and smoke.

Aurane Waters gave an urchin a copper for a skewer of honey-roasted quail and nibbled it as he rode. When he saw her staring at him he gave a wink which made her blush despite herself. They saw beautiful bronze daggers for sale, dried squids and carved onyx, different kinds of fruits and freshly stewed broths and soups.

The Mud Gate was open, and a squad of City Watchmen stood under the portcullis in their golden cloaks, leaning on spears. Across the Mud Gate the long stone quays were filled with the ships from the Summer Islands, Westeros and the Nine Free Cities. She saw chests of saffron, frankincense, and pepper being off-loaded from a ornate ship named Vermillion Kiss. Beside her, casks of wine were being settled down upon the docks from a wine cog. The banners floating from her masts proclaimed that the cog had just arrived from Arbor, an island located off the southwestern part of Westeros. A burgundy grape cluster on blue marked the cog to be one from Lord Paxter Redwyne's fleet. Wine from Arbor, Dany knew, they were considered to be the best wine in Westeros. Farther along, a dozen crates and pallets were trundled up the gangplank onto a carrack, to sail on the evening tide.

As they made their way toward the harbor, Ser Jorah rode closer to her and laid a hand against the small of her back. "My Princess. You are being followed. No, do not turn." He guided her gently toward a brass-seller's booth. They dismounted from their horses and reached the booth where the shop keeper was shouting to them.

"This is a noble work, my princess," he proclaimed loudly, lifting a large platter for her inspection. "See how it shines in the sun?"

The brass was polished to a high sheen. Dany could see her face in it . . . and when Ser Jorah angled it to the right, she could see behind her. "I see a small pale sickly child."

"That is the one," Ser Jorah said. "She has been following us since we entered the square."

The ripples in the brass stretched the stranger child queerly, making the child seem long and gaunt than she already was. "A most excellent brass, great lady," the merchant exclaimed. "Bright as the sun! And for the Mother of Dragons, only thirty copper stars."

The platter was worth no more than three. "Where are my guards?" Dany declared. "This man is trying to rob me!" For Jorah, she lowered her voice and spoke in the Common Tongue. "She may not mean me ill. Maybe she just wants to see her princess, perhaps it is no more than that."

The brass-seller ignored their whispers. "Thirty? Did I say thirty? Such a fool I am. The price is twenty honors."

"All the brass in this booth is not worth twenty honors," Dany told him as she studied the reflections. The pale girl had the look of the Quartheen about her. Viserys had been killed by an unnamed assassin, has he come to get me too in some disguise. Or could she be creature of the warlocks, meant to take me unawares?

"Ten, Princess, because you are so lovely. Use it for a looking glass. Only brass this fine could capture such beauty."

"It might serve to carry nightsoil. If you threw it away, I might pick it up, so long as I did not need to stoop. But pay for it?" Dany shoved the platter back into his hands. "Worms have crawled up your nose and eaten your wits."

"Eight coppers," he cried. "My wives will beat me and call me fool, but I am a helpless child in your hands. Come, eight, that is less than it is worth."

"What do I need with dull brass when I feed off plates of gold in the Red Keep?" As she turned to walk off, Dany let her glance sweep over the stranger. The pale girl was near as lean as she'd looked in the platter, with unwashed brown hair atop her head falling over her shoulders. She wore a tunic dyed green which had gone dirty and had a yellow cloth as a waistband.

Only fools would stare so openly if she meant me harm. All the same, it might be prudent to head back toward her guards. "The child does not wear a blade," she said to Jorah in the Common Tongue as she drew him away.

The brass merchant came hopping after them. "Five coppers, for five it is yours, it was meant for you."

Ser Jorah said, "A child that age and size could hide daggers all over her body and still roam around innocently."

"Four! I know you want it!" He danced in front of them, scampering backward as he thrust the platter at their faces. "Does she follow?"

"Lift that up a little higher," the knight told the merchant. "Yes. The child pretends to linger at a stall but she has eyes only for you."

"Two coppers! Two! Two!" The merchant was panting heavily from the effort of running backward.

"Pay him before he kills himself," Dany told Ser Jorah, wondering what she was going to do with a huge brass platter. She turned back as he reached for his coins, intending to put an end to this mummer's farce. The blood of the dragon would not be herded through the market by a small child.

The Qartheen girl stepped into her path. "Mother of Dragons, for you." She thrust a jewel box into her face.

Dany took it almost by reflex. She gave the little girl a smile. The box was a sphere of carved wood, its mother-of-pearl lid inlaid with jasper and chalcedony. "You are too generous." She opened the box when the girl asked her to open it. Within was a glittering green scarab carved from onyx and emerald. Beautiful, she thought. As she reached inside the box, the scarab unfolded with a hiss.

Dany caught a glimpse of a malign black face, almost human, and an arched tail dripping venom . . . and then the box flew from her hand in pieces, rolling over to a good few feet away from her. Dany stumbled to the ground, losing her footing trying to get away from it. As she fell down, the brass merchant let out a shriek, a woman screamed, and suddenly the people were shouting and pushing each other aside. Ser Jorah slammed past the people trying to reach her, but was having a hard time with the crowd. She heard the hiss again. She turned to see the manticore racing at her, hissing. Dany never took her eyes off it and suddenly she heard the click of a dagger and another hiss. The manticore had stopped in its track as a dagger was driven through it. It's curved tail pricked the hard steel twice for no avail before hanging limp from the dagger. Ser Jorah and her guards came with longswords drawn in their hands.

"My princess," Aurane Waters held his dagger out to her with the dead manticore as if a offering, grinning his tricksy smirk and winking his right eye at her.

* * *

 _ **Author's Notes: Another quick chapter of Dany. Now this could be confusing especially that King Ned and Queen Ashara part. I've always said that there was much to the Ned/Ashara story than we know. Hopefully I'll bring that up as the story moves up. As always thanks for the follows and favorites. And leave a review.**_

 _ **Replies to the review for last chapter.**_

 _ **To Herr Dunkelheit:**_ Thanks for the review pal. Andrew killing Jaime is partly because of his skill and partly because of his rage. You can see that in the chapter itself that he comes off as some different man from the one who killed Viserys. He was angry for what happened to his family and had only one thing in mind, vengeance. He was ready to kill all those innocent people (there were guards who doesn't have anything to do with the murder of his family) who was just doing their duty in his quest for revenge against Rhaegar (I don't appreciate that kind of behaviour). And seeing the white cloak was like throwing oil over raging fire and Jaime was the first one to feel the sting.

 _ **To justinmil22:**_ Thanks for the review mate. I'm sorry that I can't reveal that now because that will give away the plans for the story. But I can assure you, the north is still a wolf's place, not Braavos.

 _ **To Blade of Lava:**_ Thanks for the comments mate. I'm glad that you like this story.

 _ **To lockblock:**_ Thanks for the comment mate.


	22. Chapter 22

**_Aegon_**

A horse whickered impatiently behind him, from amidst the ranks of gold cloaks drawn up across the road. Aegon could hear the flapping of Rhaegal's wings from somewhere above as well. He had not wanted to keep his dragon away, especially now, but Lord Jon felt the Dornish might take it ill and a threat if the prince came out to escort them across the Blackwater with his dragon.

My father should have met the Dornishmen himself, he reflected as he sat waiting, he would do this better than me, no doubt. Of late he heard nothing from the king from Braavos. No raven or word came from Braavos which made his mother sick with worry. It worried Aegon too, but nothing like how it worried his mother. Lyanna Stark has always been a strong woman, tough to the bone and hard to crack, but now she seemed lost, confused and awry. Ever since his uncle Viserys' death she had acted as a different women than the one he'd known his entire life. Where once were the grins, only grimaces could be seen now, her wild eyes always had a wary look about them, more often than not she spent her times in the godswood when she would spend time with her family in the past. And the absence of his father only made this worse. She kept herself locked in her rooms and when she wasn't locked in her rooms, she was in the godswood. He had hoped that she would at least come to welcome the dornishmen to King's Landing but she refused. Aegon didn't know what Prince Oberyn or any of the others in the Dornish party would take of that, an insult or arrogance? He never knew.

He knew that his father was married to a Dornish princess before his mother, the sister to the ruling prince of Dorne. She had died in the war with his grandfather, apart from that he knew nothing of her. Though it was her own family coming here now, to the place where once she lived and now occupied by another in her place.

He could see their banners flying as the riders emerged from the green of the living wood in a long dusty column. From here to the river, the kingswood stretched either side of them. Aegon faintly remembered the stories of the Kingswood brotherhood his father would tell him when he was a boy. Of the Sword of the Morning, Ser Arthur Dayne, of the Smiling Knight, of Simon Toyne, of Wenda the White Fawn, of Oswyn Longneck who was hanged thrice, of Big Belly Ben, of Fletcher Dick, the greatest archer ever to set foot on earth and of Ulmer. He remembered them all, he even remembered their song from the stories. His father would sing it sometimes when he told him the story. That boy who heard those stories had wanted to be Ser Arthur Dayne, but someplace along the way he had become the Smiling Knight instead. Or else he chose to become the Smiling Knight because Arthur Dayne was an outlaw worse than the Smiling Knight, a traitor who was loyal to his outlaw uncle.

Too many banners, he thought sourly, as he watched the dirt kick up under the hooves of the approaching horses. The Martells brought half the lords of Dorne, by the look of it. He tried to think of some good that might come of that, and failed.

Aegon straightened in his saddle, trying to see the banners flowing in the wind.

The royal standard was to either side beside him, the great three-headed dragon on black, swaying gently in the wind. He looked very much the prince today, in his black armor with the ruby three-headed dragon coiling on the breastplate. It was expected of him as the crown prince and he had wanted to look his best when he welcomes his betrothed and her family.

It was the orange banners he saw first. The sun and spear of House Martell of Sunspear. The Prince of Dorne.

House Dalt of Lemonwood was next. Purple field strewn with lemons.

He could see the vulture of Blackmont with a baby grasped in its talons as well. Though with the banner flapping in the wind the baby in its talons seemed nothing more than a white lump.

The Manwoodys of Kingsgrave was in the party as well. The bone and gold crowned skull on black field was the indication for that.

There was the three black scorpions among them as well. House Qorgyle of Sandstone.

Aegon's horse grew unrest and moved back as he saw the flames of Hellholt. Whether the animal itself felt the chill upon seeing the banner of House Uller or was it bored he never knew. But he knew about the Ullers and their impulsive and unpredictable nature. Even in Dorne there was a saying that "Half of the Ullers are half-mad and the other half was worse."

Even the dragons were not safe from them. During the First Dornish war Queen Rhaenys and her dragon Meraxes were both lost at Hellholt never to be seen again. The Queen's body was never recovered and some said that she was tortured so bad that she was taken to the gates of hell by the Ullers before killing her.

The golden hand of House Allyrion of Godsgrace was at the end of one of the poles as well.

The banners of the Gargalens of Salt Shore was with them as well. The red cockatrice standing proudly with a black snake in its beak.

The golden quill of the Jordaynes of the Tor were the last one he could see, on the checkered dark and light green field.

Prince Doran Martell brings some formidable companions, it would seem. Not one of the houses he had seen was small or insignificant. Nine of the greatest lords of Dorne were coming up the kingsroad, them or their heirs, and somehow Aegon did not think they had come all this way just to see the marriage of their princess. There was a message here. And not one I like. He wondered if his father had made a mistake to leave King's Landing at this time.

"My prince," Lord Jon said, a looking straight at the Dornish party, "there's no litter."

Aegon turned his head sharply. He was right.

"Doran Martell always travels in a litter," Jon Connington said. "A carved litter with silk hangings, and suns on the drapes."

Aegon had known that on his visit to Sunspear. Prince Doran was past fifty, and gouty. He may have wanted to make faster time, he told himself. He may have feared his litter would make too tempting a target for brigands, or that it would prove too cumbersome in the high passes of the Boneway. Perhaps his gout is better.

So why did he have such a bad feeling about this?

This waiting was intolerable. "Banners forward," he snapped. "We'll meet them." He kicked his horse. Jon Connington and the rest followed. When the Dornishmen saw them coming, they spurred their own mounts, banners rippling as they rode. From their ornate saddles were slung the round metal shields they favored, and many carried bundles of short throwing spears, or the double-curved Dornish bows they used so well from horseback.

There were three sorts of Dornishmen, the first King Daeron had observed. There were the salty Dornishmen who lived along the coasts, the sandy Dornishmen of the deserts and long river valleys, and the stony Dornishmen who made their fastnesses in the passes and heights of the Red Mountains. The salty Dornishmen had the most Rhoynish blood, the stony Dornishmen the least.

All three sorts seemed well represented in his future goodfather's retinue. The salty Dornishmen were lithe and dark, with smooth olive skin and long black hair streaming in the wind. The sandy Dornishmen were even darker, their faces burned brown by the hot Dornish sun. They wound long bright scarfs around their helms to ward off sunstroke. The stony Dornishmen were biggest and fairest, sons of the Andals and the First Men, brown-haired or blond, with faces that freckled or burned in the sun instead of browning.

The lords wore silk and satin robes with jeweled belts and flowing sleeves. Their armor was heavily enameled and inlaid with burnished copper, shining silver, and soft red gold. They came astride red horses and golden ones and a few as pale as snow, all slim and swift, with long necks and narrow beautiful heads. The fabled sand steeds of Dorne were smaller than proper warhorses and could not bear such weight of armor, but it was said that they could run for a day and night and another day, and never tire.

The Dornish leader forked a stallion black as sin with a mane and tail the color of fire. He sat his saddle as if he'd been born there, tall, slim, graceful. A cloak of pale red silk fluttered from his shoulders, and his shirt was armored with overlapping rows of copper disks that glittered like a thousand bright new pennies as he rode. His high gilded helm displayed a copper sun on its brow, and the round shield slung behind him bore the sun-and-spear of House Martell on its polished metal surface.

A Martell sun, but ten years too young, Aegon thought as he reined up, too fit as well, and far too fierce. He knew what he must deal with by then. How many Dornishmen does it take to start a war? he asked himself. Only one. Yet he had no choice but to smile. "Well met, my lords. We had word of your approach, and I've ride out with Lord Jon Connington, the King's Hand to welcome you in my father's name. My mother, the queen sends her greetings as well." He feigned an amiable confusion. "Where is Prince Doran?"

"My brother's health requires he remain at Sunspear." The prince removed his helm. Beneath, his face was lined and saturnine, with thin arched brows above large eyes as black and shiny as pools of coal oil. Only a few streaks of silver marred the lustrous black hair that receded from his brow in a widow's peak as sharply pointed as his nose. A salty Dornishman for certain. "As you've already seen my brother's health does not bode well with travels. Prince Doran has sent me to act in his stead, as it please His Grace."

"His Grace will be most honored to have the counsel of a warrior as renowned as Prince Oberyn of Dorne," said Jon Connington. "And your noble companions are most welcome as well."

"Permit me to acquaint you with them, my lord Hand. Ser Deziel Dalt, of Lemonwood. Lord Tremond Gargalen. Lord Harmen Uller and his brother Ser Ulwyck. Ser Ryon Allyrion and his natural son Ser Daemon Sand, the Bastard of Godsgrace. Lord Dagos Manwoody, his brother Ser Myles, his sons Mors and Dickon. Ser Arron Qorgyle. And never let it be thought that I would neglect the ladies. Myria Jordayne, heir to the Tor. Lady Larra Blackmont, her daughter Jynessa, her son Perros." He raised a slender hand toward a black-haired woman to the rear, beckoning her forward. "And this is Ellaria Sand, mine own paramour."

Aegon swallowed a groan. His paramour, and bastard-born, this is going to cause unnecessary quarrels at the wedding. If they consigned the woman to some dark corner below the salt, they would risk the Red Viper's wrath. Seat her beside him at the high table, and every other lady on the dais was like to take offense. His betrothed came after Ellaria Sand.

Arianne Martell stepped out from behind Ellaria Sand. An ornate snake coiled around her right forearm, its copper and gold scales glimmering when she moved. He saw her shining in the sunlight and he seemed to lose the power of speech. His throat felt as dry as the Dornish sands.

Princess Arianne strode to him on snakeskin sandals laced up to her thighs. Her hair was a mane of jet-black ringlets that fell to the small of her back, and around her brow was a band of copper suns. Unlike her cousins, she was only a little thing though. Where the Sand Snakes were tall, Arianne took after her mother, and stood but five foot two. Yet beneath her jeweled girdle and loose layers of flowing purple silk and yellow samite she had a woman's body, lush and roundly curved.

Aegon took her hand in his and pressed his lips to her smooth skin. When he raised his head from her hand he saw her flanked by her cousins, the eldest three of Prince Oberyn's daughters. Obara, Nymeria and Tyene, the Sand Snakes. Did Prince Doran mean to provoke a quarrel? Looking at Prince Oberyn's pretty, but deadly daughters he could only agree with the thought.

"Princess Arianne, my ladies, welcome to King's Landing." He welcomed them formally.

The Sand Snakes approved his welcome in their own different ways. Obara the eldest Sand Snake, a big-boned woman near to thirty, with the close-set eyes and rat-brown hair of her mother gave a stern nod.

The second Sand Snake was mounted on a golden sand steed with a mane like fine white silk. Even ahorse, the Lady Nym looked graceful like her father, dressed all in shimmering lilac robes and a great silk cape of cream and copper that lifted at every gust of wind, and made her look as if she might take flight. Even the nod she gave him was filled with certain grace. Nymeria Sand was five-and-twenty, and slender as a willow. Her straight black hair, worn in a long braid bound up with red-gold wire, made a widow's peak above her dark eyes, just as her father's had. With her high cheekbones, full lips, and milk-pale skin, she had all the beauty that her elder sister lacked . . . but Obara's mother had been an Oldtown whore, whilst Nym was born from the noblest blood of old Volantis.

The third sister was the one he was the most wary of. Tyene Sand was dressed in a clinging gown of pale blue samite with sleeves of Myrish lace that made her look as innocent as the Maid herself. Her hair was gold and her eyes were deep blue pools . . . and yet somehow they reminded the prince of her father's eyes, though Prince Oberyn's had been as black as night. All of Prince Oberyn's daughters have his viper eyes, Aegon realized suddenly. The color does not matter.

She was the first one to reply him with words. "Thank you my prince" Lady Tyene's voice was gentle, and she looked as sweet as summer strawberries. Her mother had been a septa, and Tyene had an air of almost otherworldy innocence about her. She inhaled the air sweetly. "The city of King's Landing is as pure and clean as it was during the time of Baelor the Blessed. All credits to his grace, King Rhaegar."

Aegon mounted his horse getting away from any close contact with Tyene. Like her father the third Sand Snake was quite skilled with poisons and venom and he had no idea of getting pricked by her fangs.

When his own party had come up on them, the Hand of the King Jon Connington named the names. It didn't took too much time. The names had a nice ringing sound as Jon reeled them off, but the bearers were nowhere near as distinguished nor formidable a company as those who accompanied Prince Oberyn, as both of them knew full well.

"My prince," said Lady Blackmont, "we have come a long dusty way, and rest and refreshment would be most welcome. Might we continue on to the city?"

"At once, my lady." Aegon turned his horse's head, and called to Allar Deem, the acting commander of the Gold cloaks after lord commander Janos Slynt had gone with his father to Braavos. The mounted gold cloaks who formed the greatest part of his honor guard turned their horses crisply at Deem's command, and the column set off for the river and the Red Keep beyond.

Jon left to entertain the other Dornishmen and it fell to Aegon to keep their leader company. Oberyn Nymeros Martell, Aegon muttered under his breath as he fell in beside the man. The Red Viper of Dorne.

He had seen him before but knew the man only by reputation, to be sure . . . but the reputation was fearsome. When he was no more than sixteen, Prince Oberyn had been found abed with the paramour of old Lord Yronwood, a huge man of fierce repute and short temper. A duel ensued, though in view of the prince's youth and high birth, it was only to first blood. Both men took cuts, and honor was satisfied. Yet Prince Oberyn soon recovered, while Lord Yronwood's wounds festered and killed him. Afterward men whispered that Oberyn had fought with a poisoned sword, and ever thereafter friends and foes alike called him the Red Viper.

That was many years ago, before Aegon had been born. The boy of sixteen was a man past forty now, and his legend had grown a deal darker. He had traveled in the Free Cities, learning the poisoner's trade and perhaps arts darker still, if rumors could be believed. He had studied at the Citadel, going so far as to forge six links of a maester's chain before he grew bored. He had soldiered in the Disputed Lands across the narrow sea, riding with the Second Sons for a time before forming his own company. His tourneys, his battles, his duels, his horses, his carnality . . . it was said that he bedded men and women both, and had begotten bastard girls all over Dorne. So far as Tyrion had heard, Prince Oberyn had never fathered a son.

And of course, he had crippled the heir to Highgarden.

Aegon's head throbbed badly with the thoughts of the Tyrell party already in the castle. To send Prince Oberyn to King's Landing while the city still hosted Lord Mace Tyrell, two of his sons, and hundreds of their men-at-arms was a provocation as dangerous as Prince Oberyn himself. A wrong word, an ill-timed jest, a look, that's all it will take, and our noble allies will be at one another's throats.

"I came here once before," the Dornish prince said lightly to Aegon as they rode side by side along the kingsroad, past green fields and the stretch of trees. "Though another King ruled from the Iron Throne then and it was another marriage I came to attend."

There was a dark edge to his voice that Aegon misliked, but he was not about to let the Dornishman threaten him. "When was this, my lord?" he asked in tones of polite interest.

"Oh, many and many a year ago, when your grandfather, the Mad King ruled the Seven Kingdoms and it was your father's marriage I was attending to."

Not this, thought Aegon. Not again.

"It was when your father married my sister Elia. I had no mind to be there mind you but Elia insisted. And I've never refused my sister anything. Anything but justice."

The sun was shining bright above them, and the day was pleasantly warm, but Aegon Targaryen went cold all over when he heard that.

"Justice." Yes, that is why he's here, I should have seen that at once. "You were close to your sister?"

"As children Elia and I were inseparable."

Gods, I hope my father was here. "Wars and weddings have kept us well occupied, Prince Oberyn. I fear no one has yet had the time to look into murders seventeen years stale, dreadful as they were. We shall, of course, just as soon as my father returns from Braavos. Any help that Dorne might be able to provide to hold the king's peace would only hasten the beginning of my royal father's inquiry—"

"Boy," said the Red Viper, in a tone grown markedly less cordial, "spare me your foul lies. My brother is not a bloodthirsty man, but neither has he been asleep for seventeen years. People talk, they always do and you can be sure that a hundred did in this matter. I did not come for some mummer's show of an inquiry. I came for justice for Elia and her children, and I will have it. Starting with this mad red priest you father calls his friend, Bezzaro . . . but not, I think, ending there. Before he dies, the Mad Burner will tell me whence came his orders, please assure your royal father of that." He smiled. "An old septon once claimed I was living proof of the goodness of the gods. Do you know why that is?"

"No," Aegon admitted warily.

"Why, if the gods were cruel, they would have made me my mother's firstborn, and Doran her third. I am a bloodthirsty man, you see. And it is me you must contend with now, not my patient, prudent, and gouty brother."

Aegon could see the sun shining on the Blackwater Rush half a mile ahead, and on the walls and towers and hills of King's Landing beyond. He glanced over his shoulder, at the glittering column following them up the kingsroad and somehow he felt that he never belonged there.

Prince Oberyn gave a snort getting his attention back. "In Dorne of old before we married Daeron, it was said that all creatures, beings and flowers bow before the sun. Should the dragons seek to trouble me I'll burn them. Should the roses seek to hinder me I'll gladly trample them underfoot." He took hold of his stallion's reins and looked at him with black eyes shining and raging. "You see, I'm no Eddard Stark and you will see that soon."

With that Oberyn Martell spurred his horse forward, the stallion's mane flowing like fire in the wind, much like Martell's blazing eyes.

* * *

 _ **Author's Notes: So Rhaegar claimed that he had nothing to do with Elia's murder but Oberyn claims otherwise. What do you guys think about it? Leave a review. I'd love to hear your thoughts as always.**_


	23. Chapter 23

_**Samwell**_

The rising sun sent fingers of light through the pale white mists of dawn. A wide plain spread out beneath them, bare and brown, its flatness here and there relieved by long, low hummocks. Samwell Tarly knew these lands from his books. The barrows of the First Men.

A sharp pang twisted in Sam's heart at the thought of riding through a graveyard. He wanted to cry, to scream, to leave, most importantly he wanted to go home, to his mother and sisters. But his father's words frightened him more than the graves did. "on the morrow we shall have a hunt, and somewhere in these woods your horse will stumble, and you will be thrown from the saddle to die . . ."

Sam wiped his tears away at the thoughts of the past but the tears were unending. Like the snowfall in the north it seemed as if his tears would never end. He had never seen snows before. Samwell Tarly had been born south in the lands of the Reach as the firstborn son of Lord Randyll Tarly of Horn Hill and his lady wife Lady Melessa Florent.

There were no snows in the south and no cold, yet he never found warmth at Horn Hill. His thoughts went back to the old life he had left back, mostly his mother. He cried again at the thought of his mother. Sweet mother who used to call him Sam. But it was not his mother's face he could see now but the hard and brittle face of his father. "You will be thrown from the saddle..." his voice ringed in his ears.

His breath steamed in the cold air and with every passing moment the land became cooler. Sam hated the cold. It had been warmer in Horn Hill, though Sam hated it there seeing the cold of the north he certainly missed the southern lands of his father. He had never seen snow until last week.

They had been entering the barrowlands, Sam and the men his father had sent to see him north, when the white stuff began to fall, like a soft rain. At first he had thought it to be so beautiful, like feathers drifting from the sky, but the snowfall kept on and on, until he was frozen to the bone. Before him his father's men had crusts of snow in their beards and more on their shoulders, and still it kept coming. Looking up at the snowflakes drifting down he thought that it was not going to end and the thought frightened him.

He ought to be unafraid of them. He might be seeing the snows and feeling the bite of the cold for the rest of his life. It may be even colder in the Wall, the place where he was going to spend the rest of his life in. Sam knew of the Wall as everyone in Westeros did. The looming structure made of ice, and he was afraid of it. He knew that he was a craven and a coward and he also knew that the Night's Watch was no place for a coward. Yet he had very little choice in that matter. His eyes grew wet again when he thought about his last nameday.

The Tarlys were a family old in honor, bannermen to Mace Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden and Warden of the South. Being the eldest son of Lord Randyll Tarly, Samwell was born heir to rich lands, a strong keep, and a storied two-handed greatsword named Heartsbane, forged of Valyrian steel and passed down from father to son near five hundred years.

Whatever pride his lord father might have felt at his birth vanished as he grew up plump, soft, and awkward. Sam loved to listen to music and make his own songs, to wear soft velvets, to play in the castle kitchen beside the cooks, drinking in the rich smells as he snitched lemon cakes and blueberry tarts. His passions were books and kittens and dancing, though he was clumsy in it. But he grew ill at the sight of blood. He even wept to see even a chicken slaughtered. A dozen masters-at-arms came and went at Horn Hill, trying to turn him into the knight his father had wanted him to be. He was cursed and caned, slapped and starved. One man had him sleep in his chainmail to make him more martial. Another dressed him in his mother's clothing and paraded him through the bailey to shame him into valor. He only grew fatter and more frightened, until Lord Randyll's disappointment turned to anger and then to loathing. One time two men came to the castle, warlocks from Qarth. He remembered them, with white skin and blue lips they had scared him to death. The Warlocks slaughtered a bull aurochs and made him bathe in the hot blood, but it didn't made him brave as they'd promised. He just got sick and retched. And his father had them scourged.

Finally, after three girls in as many years, Lady Tarly gave her lord husband a second son. From that day, Lord Randyll ignored Sam, devoting all his time to his younger brother, a fierce, robust child more to his lord father's liking. Samwell had known several years of sweet peace with his music and his books.

Until the dawn of his seventeenth name day, when he had been awakened to find his horse saddled and ready. Three men-at-arms had escorted him into a wood near Horn Hill, where his father was skinning a deer. "You are almost a man grown now, and my heir," Lord Randyll Tarly had told him, his long knife laying bare the carcass as he spoke. "You have given me no cause to disown you, but neither will I allow you to inherit the land and title that should be Dickon's. Heartsbane must go to a man strong enough to wield her, and you are not worthy to touch her hilt. So I have decided that you shall this day announce that you wish to take the black. You will forsake all claim to your brother's inheritance and start north before evenfall.

"If you do not, then on the morrow we shall have a hunt, and somewhere in these woods your horse will stumble, and you will be thrown from the saddle to die . . . or so I will tell your mother. She has a woman's heart and finds it in her to cherish even you, and I have no wish to cause her pain. Please do not imagine that it will truly be that easy, should you think to defy me. Nothing would please me more than to hunt you down like the pig you are." His arms were red to the elbow as he laid the skinning knife aside. "So. There is your choice. The Night's Watch"—he reached inside the deer, ripped out its heart, and held it in his fist, red and dripping—"or this."

Sam shook in his saddle as he thought of the heart dripping with blood in his father's blade. If it was something that had happened to someone else, he would have wept but there was no one to weep for him. And strangely, even his own tears had betrayed him.

He did not weep when he thought about it, not even once. He rode in his saddle quietly listening to the winds. His legs ached and he wanted nothing more than to rest for a while. He would ask his father's guards for it but they would only tie him up and put him across his saddle to rest. Even they wanted this to end quickly and their duty would end when this journey would come to its end. And his journey along the kingsroad would come to an end with Castle Black where he would swear his life to the Night's Watch.

Sam had not wanted this, he hadn't wanted the north, he hadn't wanted the Wall, he hadn't wanted to join the Night's Watch. All he wanted was to go study in the Citadel and wear the maester's chain but Lord Randyll Tarly would have nothing of it. There were so many books in the Citadel that no man can hope to read them all. He could have very well become a master as he had once dreamed to.

Now the word made him flinch. No, Father, please, I won't speak of it again, I swear it by the Seven. Let me out, please let me out. He tried to brush the memory away as soon as it entered his mind but he couldn't.

"The life of a maester is a life of servitude." Lord Randyll had told him when he told his father about his wish to become a maester. "No son of House Tarly will ever wear a chain. The men of Horn Hill do not bow and scrape to petty lords. If it is chains you want, come with me."

Sam put a hand to his throat. He could almost feel the chain there, choking him. They make you wear a chain about your neck. If it is chains you want, come with me. For three days and three nights Sam had sobbed himself to sleep, manacled hand and foot to a wall. The chain around his throat was so tight it broke the skin, and whenever he rolled the wrong way in his sleep it would cut off his breath. He had never used the word maester in his father's presence thereafter.

The north went on forever he saw as their ride continued for days. They rode most of the day and there were rides even during the night much to Sam's chagrin. Most time he would lag behind his guards and even then they would drag him for a faster pace.

By the end of the second week, Samwell's thighs were raw from hard riding, his legs were cramping badly, and he was chilled to the bone. He did not complain knowing full and well that his companions won't even bother to hear him. They rode hard and fast as the days passed and Sam tried hard to keep up with his father's men.

They reached Winterfell, the ancient stronghold of House Stark, now occupied by the Targaryens, sooner than he had thought to thanks to their quicker pace. Though Sam was not thankful for it though. His father's men wanted nothing more than to put him in Castle Black as quick as possible and Sam wanted nothing more than to at least enjoy the last few days he had before taking his vows as the brother of Night's Watch.

He had thought they would stay in Winterfell for the night but his companions kept on riding. Sam had wanted to visit the castle of course. Once Winterfell had been the capital of the North, when the north had been an independent kingdom. When the King in the North, Eddard Stark still ruled the kingdom with his queen, Queen Ashara. Those days would have been the days of glory for the north.

Sam had heard those stories when he was a boy in Horn Hill. Stories of the Outlaw King in the North. He'd been only three or four when Eddard Stark declared his northern kingdom independent. King Rhaegar Targaryen declared King Eddard a rebel and declared war against the Northern king. Thrice the Targaryen army attacked the north and thrice the north threw them back. There were singers who still sang about the Battle of Wolfswood, the third and final battle fought between the Starks and the Targaryens, where King Eddard smashed the Targaryen forces under King Rhaegar and chased them from the edge of the Wolfswood to the Sea Dragon point through where they had entered the north unseen.

For three years there had been no war after the bitter defeat in the north. King Rhaegar declared King Eddard an Outlaw to his realm and the northerners claimed their absolute independence from the Iron Throne until King Eddard, Queen Ashara and their little son Prince Andrew's demise in the hands of the Rhaegar Targaryen through treachery. There is no crime worse than murder at a host's dinner table Sam had heard his father tell his mother when he heard about the Starks' massacre at Starfall. There are no gods to hear our prayers, Sam thought. The Seven had never answered him and the Heart Trees the northmen worshipped did nothing about the crimes done to the Starks.

He looked to the tall grey towers capped white with snow and deeply wished that Eddard Stark was still alive. Maybe he could've saved him from his fate. No one dared to enter the north from the south whilst he was still alive and maybe the King in the North could've given Sam a chance. Sam knew that King Eddard was an honorable man and his queen, Queen Ashara was a kind woman. He could've even befriended the prince.

As they neared the castle Sam could see that their was nothing cheerful with the sight. The grey walls seemed alone and bleak and the black and red dragon banners of the Targaryens looked out of place. It was as quiet as a grave with no indication of people there. Though the castle stood strong it seemed as if it was just a burnt ruin. As they crossed the castle Sam thought of his wish. Looking up at the black banners flowing from the snow covered towers of Winterfell Sam sadly thought the fact that none of his wishes ever came true.

He left his lost wish with Winterfell in the swirling snows and passed the castle. He looked back at the castle as he moved away from it. He could still see it, standing alone and grim in the cover of snow and cold much like his unanswered prayers.


	24. Chapter 24

_**TYRION**_

The paper sat rolled up in Lord Jon's hands, his eyes wondering up and down the words written upon them. Robert Baratheon, Hoster Tully, Brynden Tully and his sister all gathered round him. They looked to Tyrion as he entered and Tyrion found neither warmth nor calm in their eyes. Robert cared not a whit about him as always, Lord Tully's eyes looked at him with a mute appeal and so was his mouth, Ser Brynden followed him with his blue eyes in silence. Edmure Tully for his part nodded at him. But it was Cersei's eyes which made him intrigued. Her green eyes were wild and raging like wildfire and her mouth pressed in a tight line. But Tyrion could have sworn that she was fuming at him in her heart for some reason.

Tyrion walked the length of Hoster Tully's solar and claimed his place next to his sister, propped up by cushions so he could gaze down the length of the table. As always, Hoster Tully was at the head of the table, behind him Tyrion could see the Tumblestone rushing down. Though he was not seated in the high seat, the council surrounded Jon Arryn and the letter in his hand. Lord Arryn kept his foster son to his right while Hoster Tully was to his left. Lord Tully's brother and son occupied his side and Cersei sat at her husband's side.

He was late as always. The game they had been playing had commenced already while he lay sleeping in his bed.

"Look who decided to show up," Robert Baratheon said in a jolly tone as Tyrion sat in his chair. Despite the cheerfulness of his sister's husband, the room looked glum with gloomy faces.

"Hope you had a good night, Dwarf. We've got some grave tidings in the cover of the night."

Grave tidings, that was not going to be good. "I did have a good night, my lord. Thank you." He did have a good night indeed, with some hot food in his belly accompanied some good sweet wine and a whore in his bed, he had slept surprising peaceful under Hoster Tully's roof. They have broken his good night, it seems. Looking at Cersei, he could definitely tell that they had spoiled his night. She had such ruthlessness etched in her emerald eyes, directed at him.

Jon Arryn rolled the paper in his fist and kept it there, hidden. Tyrion had wanted to see it. If they saw it fit to rush him off his bed to some cushioned chair he better see it first.

There was no smile nor comfort in the Lord of the Eyrie's face. "We have news from Braavos." Tyrion moved forward in his chair eager to learn about how his plan had worked out. "It looks as though your plan has worked well, Lord Tyrion. Your anonymous killer came out to face Rhaegar Targaryen and his men. Losses were heavy on Rhaegar's side, but in the end he prevailed and your killer lays dead in the gutter of Braavos."

That was disappointing. He'd had high hopes for the man or boy or whatever he was. If he had dealt with Rhaegar in Braavos they could've very well used the unrest in the kingdom for their sake. Now he had died. It had been a good gamble with him. Either way, he would have won. If he had succeeded in killing Rhaegar, then they could've very well used it for their advantage but now even though he failed to do that there were no losses in Tyrion's side. All he has to do now was to find another plan to shake out the Targaryen dynasty.

"That's not all," said Jon Arryn bringing his attention back to him. "Your brother was killed in the fight. He fought valiantly and gave his life for the king, it is written here."

Jaime is dead? He felt something hard within his heart. Something he had not felt ever since Tysha. He had loved his brother, as he loved his life. During all the terrible long years of his childhood, only Jaime had ever shown him the smallest measure of affection or respect, and for that Tyrion was willing to forgive him most anything. Him and uncle Gerion. Both are gone now, uncle Gery lost in the seas and Jaime lost in his vows. Oh, brother... Why did you have to stick to your vows so seriously? After killing the Mad King his brother had chosen to stay in the kingsguard even after Rhaegar Targaryen gave him the choice to leave the white cloak and be Lord Tywin's heir. A gesture of his goodwill to Tywin Lannister but Tyrion had always suspected it to be more likely as to not have a kingslayer in his kingsguard. His brother had chosen to stay in the kingsguard and right his wrongs in Rhaegar's rule.

"I need to clean off the stain in my cloak," Jaime had said when Tyrion asked him about it.

Have you cleaned your cloak now brother? Giving your life for your king. Would they call you a great knight who gave his life for his king? Would they sing songs for you now?

"So much for following Rhaegar and his band of cronies," Robert said. "What could you ever expect from following some mad man?"

"What do we know of Rhaegar's plans and movements?" asked Brynden Tully, ever blunt and to the point.

"He is coming back to Westeros," announced Lord Jon. "It seems as if Braavos does not suit him."

"Are you certain he is coming back?" Lord Hoster asked. "Even with the contract of the Iron Bank unfinished?"

Brynden Tully spoke up. "Is there anything as pointless as to earn some coins to pay for your death? No, it's plain, Rhaegar must abandon Braavos if he wishes to live. Who is to say that it was just one man who wanted him dead? He is well away from his kingdom with only a handful of guards around him. Others can pounce upon him from the shadows as well."

Tyrion listened to their arguments in silence. The news of his brother's death had left a bad taste in his mouth.

"We ought to write Mace Tyrell a letter," Hoster Tully was saying. "He wouldn't be so thrilled to have a Dornish girl as the queen over his daughter."

Jon Arryn cleared his throat. "As regards to marriage . . . We've been invited to attend the wedding of Aegon Targaryen. Hoster received a letter today. They know that we all are here in Riverrun."

"What does it matter?" snapped Cersei. "We just came here for the children's marriage."

Tyrion looked up to his sister and wondered what made her such a stupid to say that. Was it Jaime's death? She turned away from Jaime once he chose the white cloak over her. Though the presence of Joffrey said otherwise. Green eyes and blonde hair, Joffrey was as much as Jaime's son as Cersei's. She had done up a good work to cover him up under Gendry and Argella, but Tyrion was not so stupid like the others to miss that. Cersei likes to think herself as Lord Tywin with teats, but she was not. She has no patience and thinks herself to be composed but is angry. She can be cunning, but the anger makes her stupid.

"Quiet woman," Robert said to Cersei. "Do you think Connington would be fed up with that lie. Lord Melon might believe it as the stupid he is but not Connington."

"And should we accept this request?" inquired Lord Hoster Tully. "Should we go to King's Landing?"

"Perhaps we should," Robert said. "And we should take some good sharp steel as our wedding gifts."

Lord Jon gave a disapproving look at his foster son. "How many times should I've to tell you Robert, it is not-"

"Honorable," Robert Baratheon finished with a scoff. "What do the damn dragon know about honor? What they did to Rickard and Brandon Stark was honorable? What they did to Ned and his family was honorable?" His voice had grown so loud when he mentioned Eddard Stark and his family. "I will kill every Targaryen I can get my hands on. I'll kill them along with their dragons and then, only then I'll pay my respects to Ned."

Lord Jon's face grew soft at that. "You will have your time, Robert. But for now, be patient."

Though Robert looked as he was going to argue, he dropped his gaze down and sat still in his seat.

"We shall not go to the wedding and dishonor ourselves in the presence of those murderers," Jon Arryn said at last. "We shall isolate ourselves from them and let them try all they can. I'll not let another one of my family suffer in the hands of the Targaryens. We shall remain quiet until Rhaegar comes back from Braavos."

"And let this thing go on?" Robert raised his eyebrows. "Leave this be and I promise you, Jon, there will be more dragonspawns to plague us."

"The marriage won't go any further until Rhaegar comes back from Braavos, Robert," Jon Arryn announced. "And Aegon's marriage means that his brother Jaehaerys will go south to attend it. We need the north on our side. When he leaves the north unchecked, we could take back Winterfell and give the northerners a chance to fight for Ned and his family like Tyrion here said us to. They were well loved in the north that the northern lords wouldn't have forgotten what happened to them."

Tyrion kept quiet throughout the conversation. More likely with the sting of the brother's loss still in his heart. This changed things, in a huge manner. Tyrion could only wonder how his father would react to the loss of his heir. Though he has not lost the real heir yet. He could only wonder.

When the meeting was finally over, he left the solar for Riverrun's hall. He was definitely hungry and the taste of food and wine might do good, especially now.

Outside, Tyrion swallowed a lungful of the cold morning air and began his laborious descent of the steep stone steps that corkscrewed around the exterior of the gatehouse tower. The rising sun had not yet claimed its place in the sky, but the men were already hard at it in the yard below. Sandor Clegane's rasping voice drifted up to him. "Your father has given strict orders as to not let you beyond the walls."

Tyrion glanced down and saw the Hound standing with young Joffrey as squires swarmed around them. "My brother does that everyday day," the lordling replied. "Morning and evening he leaves this stupid castle with that girl of his and father has nothing to say about it neither do you Clegane. Is it because my brother has his warhammer across his back or that he is married? I could swing Lion's Tooth as well as my brother could do with his warhammer."

Tyrion couldn't help but chuckle at that. The day when Joffrey fights half as good as Gendry does will be the day the Wall melts. Gendry had acquired his love and skill for battle from his father which unfortunately Joffrey hasn't managed to acquire from Jaime. All the things he ever acquired from his parents was Cersei's stupidity and her pretty blond hair and emerald eyes.

Clegane cast a long shadow across the hard-packed earth as he cradled the black helm in his hand. "You could ask your mother," he said to Joffrey. Behind him, the yard rang to the clangor of steel on steel in the cold morning air.

The notion does not seemed to delight the boy. "I am not a child!" he exclaimed. "I don't have to follow my mother's words everywhere."

"Whom are you trying to fool Joff?" Argella came to her brother, her skirts of red silk and satin swirling behind her in the morning air as if she was on blazing fire. "You're a child. Don't try to be a man yet."

Even as girl it was clear as summer that Argella was a born for greatness just like her older brother. She had all of her mother's beauty and none of her nature. The truth was Argella was more fit to hold a greater legacy than the boy Joffery. She was braver and brighter and more confident as well. Her wits were quicker, her courtesies more polished. Nothing daunted her, not even Joffrey's monstrosity which would send grown men to cover.

"No one asked you," Joffrey seethed. "You're a woman. You're supposed to be inside this boring castle and sing your stupid songs."

"Does everything have to be boring for you brother?" Argella asked. "If you so much desire so, perhaps I could ask mother or father to let you go."

"I don't need your help," Joffrey screamed. "I can go out myself."

Tyrion hopped off the last step onto the yard. "I beg to differ, nephew," he said. "Your father has planned to leave so soon and you are expected to get your things and say your farewells."

"Uncle Tyrion," Ella smiled and knelt to hug him when she saw him.

Joffrey sneered down at him, his green eyes raging much like his mother's.

"A voice from nowhere," Sandor said. He peered to the thin air befor him, looking this way and that. "Spirits of the air!"

"That's not fair," Argella hissed at the Hound.

His nephew laughed, as he always laughed when his bodyguard did this mummer's farce. Tyrion was used to it. "Down here."

The tall man peered down at the ground, and pretended to notice him. "The little lord Tyrion," he said. "My pardons. I did not see you standing there."

"I am in no mood for your insolence today." Tyrion turned to his nephew. "Joffrey, it is past time you called on Lord Hoster and the household of Riverrun, to offer them your courtesies for hosting you gracefully."

Joffrey looked as petulant as only a boy lordling can look. "What good will my courtesies do them?" He pointed to Argella beside him and said, "That's her job, offering her courtesies like the girl she is."

"Oh, Ella has made her presence known well better than anyone here," Tyrion said. "It is expected of you too. Your absence has been noted. Have you forgotten that your good sister is Lord Hoster's granddaughter?"

"My brother's wife is nothing to me," Joffrey said. Tyrion Lannister reached up and slapped his nephew hard across the face. The boy's cheek began to redden.

"One word," Tyrion said, "and I will hit you again."

"I'm going to tell Mother!" Joffrey exclaimed.

Tyrion hit him again. Now both cheeks flamed.

"You tell your mother," Tyrion told him. "But first you get yourself to Lord Hoster, tell him how thankful you are for his treatment to you then go to Lady Alyssa and you fall to your knees in front of her, and you tell her how grateful you're for having her as your goodsister and future lady. Do you understand? Do you?"

The boy looked as though he was going to cry. Instead, he managed a weak nod. Then he turned and fled headlong from the yard, holding his cheek. Tyrion watched him run.

A shadow fell across his face. He turned to find Clegane looming overhead like a cliff. His soot-dark armor seemed to blot out the sun. He had put on his helmet and lowered the visor on his helm. It was fashioned in the likeness of a snarling black hound, fearsome to behold, but Tyrion had always thought it a great improvement over Clegane's hideously burned face.

"The lordling will remember that, little lord," the Hound warned him. The helm turned his laugh into a hollow rumble.

"I pray he does," Tyrion Lannister replied. "If he forgets, be a good dog and remind him." He glanced around for Argella. "Come sweet niece, hitting your brother had made uncle Tyrion hungry." He extended his arm. "Shall we?" he asked with a smirk. Argella smiled at him and took his hand.

"Ah, the lords of Westeros would die for the honor you've graced me with," Tyrion said making Ella giggle. He gave Sandor Clegane a perfunctory nod and walked away with his niece as briskly as his stunted legs would carry him, whistling. He pitied the first knight to try the Hound today. The man did have a temper.

"Mother is going to be angry at you uncle," Argella said as they walked to the hall. Tyrion smirked.

"When wasn't she?" Tyrion replied making his neice laugh, brightening up the gloomy morning.

A cold, cheerless meal had been laid out in the hall of Riverrun. Cersei sat at the table with her eldest son and his wife, whispering in Gendry's ears. No one occupied the hall other than them. Robert, Jon Arryn, Hoster Tully, Brynden Tully, Lysa Tully and all the other lords were not there. Some of the guards sat in the lower benches, deep in their talks and laugh.

Cersei gave a sweet smile when she saw her daughter. "Argella sweetling, where have you been? I searched for you," she asked her daughter. Her smile curdled like sour milk when she looked at him. His sister peered at him with the same expression of faint distaste she had worn since the day he was born. "Where did you take her to?"

"I was at the library mother," Argella said to Cersei. "I met with uncle Tyrion just now." She put her hands around her brother and kissed his cheek. "Not waiting for your little sister now brother? Eager to have some time alone with your wife?" Argella asked with an easy smile.

"You wound me, sweet sister," Gendry pressed a kiss to his sister's cheek. "How could I ever forget you?"

"You better don't," Argella replied and took her seat beside her mother, offering her goodsister a smile.

A servant approached. "Bread," Tyrion told him, "and two of those little fish, and a mug of that good dark beer to wash them down. Oh, and some bacon. Burn it until it turns black. Make it two, one for my lovely niece here." The man bowed and moved off. Tyrion turned back to his family. Cersei and her pride, a lion and a lioness. Gods help me, how would Joffrey ever hope to fit in with them. But then again he himself never fit with his siblings. The golden twins of Tywin Lannister, male and female, the proud of the Lion of West. What was he compared to them? He almost felt sorry for Joffrey.

Cersei looked very much her part this morning. He had missed her beauty early on. She had chosen a deep green that matched her eyes. Her blond curls were a fashionable tumble, and gold ornaments shone at her wrists and fingers and throat.

Argella spoke up. "Will you come to Storm's End, Uncle?"

"You should come, Uncle," Gendry said. "It will be good to have you there."

"As much as I like to accompany you to Storm's End, my father will likely have me walk my way through the Seven Kingdoms hereafter if he hears that I've disobeyed his orders," Tyrion said. "You see I have no problem walking around Westeros but my legs might object though, small as they are."

Alyssa Arryn chuckled at that.

"Lady Alyssa, I hope you're happy with my nephew?" Tyrion said. The servant brought his plate. He ripped off a chunk of black bread.

Alyssa Baratheon looked at her husband with a gentle smile. "Of course I am, my lord."

Tyrion gave her a crooked smile. "Good. He once cried to me for he was so upset that he did not inherited my charms." He took a sip of beer. Gendry chuckled with the beer in his mouth while his wife gave a happy laugh. "You are truly handsome, Uncle," Argella said with a piece of bread in her mouth.

"Will you return straight to father?" Cersei asked.

The bacon crunched when he bit into it. Tyrion chewed thoughtfully for a moment and said, "I think so." He chewed some more bread. "I have a mind to take a ship and go see this Wall we have all heard so much of. I might not get this chance again."

She frowned. "I hope you're not thinking of taking the black."

Tyrion laughed. "What, me, celibate? The whores would go begging from Dorne to Casterly Rock. No, I just want to stand on top of the Wall and piss off the edge of the world."

Cersei stood abruptly. "The children don't need to hear this filth. Argella, come." She strode briskly from the morning room, her daughter trailing behind her.

After breaking his fast, he was pleased to reach his chambers without further incident. As he climbed the steps to his chambers, Tyrion felt a deal more hopeful than he had at dawn. Time, that's all I truly need, time to piece it all together. He might even work on something to bring down the dragons . . . He opened the door to his solar.

Cersei was waiting for him near the window. She turned when she heard the door open, skirts swirling around her slender hips. "How dare you?"

"How dare I what?" Tyrion was not amused. He swung the door shut behind him. "If I've given you offense, I would know how."

"What a disgusting little worm you are. You killed him!" Cersei screeched. "You killed him conspiring with your assassin friend. You killed him just so you could get Casterly Rock."

Jaime, he thought. She thinks that I conspired with someone to kill Jaime. "I would never," Tyrion said strongly. "I loved him as much as you do."

"Did you now?" Cersei paced away from him, restless as a lioness, skirts swirling. You are the one talked about leaving Rhaegar to Braavos, you're the one to talk about that filth in the first place. You knew him."

Tyrion shook his head and sighed. "All I knew about him was that he killed Viserys and I thought that he would kill Rhaegar." Tyrion found his anger rising up in him. "It is not on my head that Jaime chose to fight him rather than leaving Rhaegar to do his dirty work. Or have you forgotten the manner of his death, he died fighting for his king, not for you."

And Cersei began to cry.

Tyrion Lannister could not have been more astonished if Aegon the Conqueror himself had burst into the room, riding on a dragon and juggling lemon pies. He had not seen his sister weep since they were children together at Casterly Rock. Awkwardly, he took a step toward her. When your sister cries, you were supposed to comfort her . . . but this was Cersei! He reached a tentative hand for her shoulder.

"Don't touch me," she said, wrenching away. It should not have hurt, yet it did, more than any slap. Red-faced, as angry as she was grief-stricken, Cersei struggled for breath. "Don't look at me, not . . . not like this . . . not you."

Politely, Tyrion turned his back. "I did not mean to upset you."

"First, you took mother away from me and now Jaime. Whom do you plan on taking from me next? My children?"

After all these years, she still blames him for their mother's death. "I promise you, nothing shall happen to your children. All I want is to protect them."

"Liar," she said behind him. "I'm not a child, to be soothed with empty promises. You told me you would protect Jaime too. Well, where is he? "

In one of the seven heavens, he thought. "I might have failed in that but this I will not. A Lannister always pays his debts and I still have a debt to pay."

* * *

 _ **A/N: So, another chapter. More of things happening in Westeros. An introduction to all the Baratheon kids as well. Hope you like it. Leave a review. It is the best thing you could do to me.**_


	25. Chapter 25

ANDREW

He dreamed of a cracked stone ceiling and the smells of blood and food and burnt flesh. The air was full of the smell of blood and smoke. Men were groaning and whimpering all around him, and from time to time a scream would pierce the air, thick with pain. When he tried to move, he found himself in the boat unable to move. He saw his mother glowing brightly in the dark that she made him cover his eyes. When he tried to climb out of the boat and move to her, a sharp pain coursed through his body searing through his soul. He hurt so much. Too weak to groan, he lay where he was and shut his eyes. Nearby he could still see the sun he had seen when he was dying. He looked to the golden light and wondered if he was still dying and not dead yet. After a time the room faded.

He found himself outside the room and into the city, walking through a world without color. Ravens soared through a grey sky on wide black wing, while carrion crows rose from their feasts in furious clouds wherever he set his steps. White maggots burrowed through black corruption. The grey stone streets of the city were red now, and the novices of the House of Black and White grey as fogs; together with the crows they stripped the flesh from the fallen and took their faces. There were corpses strewn all over the streets. The sun was a hot white penny, shining down upon the grey river as it rushed around the swollen corpses of drowned men. From the pyres of the dead rose black columns of smoke and white-hot ashes. My work, thought Andrew Stark. He turned to look back the way he'd come and it was filled with men who had lost limbs, legs, head, face, eye, guts and everything one could lose from their body.

At first there was no sound in the world, but after a time he began to hear the voices of the dead, soft and terrible. They wept and moaned, they begged for an end to pain, they cried for help and wanted their mothers. Andrew wanted his mother too. He wanted Ashara Dayne, but she was not there. He walked alone amidst grey shadows, trying to remember . . .

The novices of the faceless men were stripping the dead men of their armor and clothes. All the bright dyes had leached out from the surcoats of the slain; they were garbed in shades of white and grey, and their blood was black and crusty. He watched their naked bodies lifted by arm and leg, to be carried swinging to the pyres to join their fellows. Metal and cloth were thrown in the back of a white wooden wagon, pulled by two tall black horses.

So many dead, so very many. Their corpses hung limply, their faces slack or stiff or swollen with gas, unrecognizable, hardly human. The garments the novices took from them were decorated with pale red fire and ghostly dragons. Their armor was all dented and gashed, the chainmail riven, broken, slashed. Why did I kill them all? He had never known any of them, none but one and somehow he had missed the one he had known.

He began to run. The city was not far. He would be safe inside the city, away from all these dead. He did not belong with the dead. He was still a living man. They all were lying dead and deaf and blind but he was alive and well. He ran away from them. He ran and ran and ran until he saw a white tree far away. He ran towards it, faster, as fast as his wounded leg would allow.

He saw them beneath the tree, curled up together as one as he had seen them once long ago. His father sat leaning against the Heart Tree, though it had grey leaves instead of red and black blood flowing from the carved face's eyes and mouth. His mother sat with her back pressed against his father's chest his arms cradling her against him. They looked so happy, as they had always been together. "Mother," he shouted at them but they did not hear him. "Father," he tried again, this time moving close to them. His father was laughing at something his mother had said but he did not hear him.

"Mother," he shouted louder. "Father." He moved closer to the tree shouting for his parents as he went. They saw him only when he reached them.

His mother was the first one to see him. She was quick to embrace him tightly. The fragrance of the roses she loved filled his nose and she felt real, real and alive standing before him, hugging him tightly like she had done when he was a boy. "Oh, Andrew, sweetheart, what have they done to you?"

When he looked down he saw that he was covered in blood, both his and the ones he had killed. Luckily the blood did not pass onto his mother.

"Why won't you remember what I told you, sweetling?" She placed her palm against his cheek and her touch was cold against his skin. Her touch had always been warm, not now it was not.

"I remember," Andrew told her. "I remember everything. I killed Viserys and I tried to kill Rhaegar. I tried to get justice."

"Oh, sweetheart."

"Let him go, Ash," his father told his mother. A crown of mist sat upon his head where once another one made of metal had sat. "He needs to learn this on his own."

Andrew looked to his father. "What are you talking about?" he told him. "I'm not going anywhere. I'm going to be with you and mother."

His father smiled at him, a smile filled with warmth. "You don't belong here, son," he said and placed his hand on his head to ruffle his hair. His father used to ruffle his hair back at Winterfell everytime he told him stories of the Age of Heroes and the children of the forest. Andrew had missed it so much.

His father took his hand from his head and placed it around his mother. "Come, Ash. We should go."

"No, father," Andrew said, afraid that he is going to lose them again. "Please don't leave me." He turned to his mother. "Mother, please." His mother would not leave him alone. Not her, his sweet mother.

"We'll always be with you sweetheart," Ashara Dayne said. When she took her husband's hand they both vanished before him like the crown of mist on his father's head.

It was dark when he woke again. At first he could see nothing, but after a time the vague outlines of a room appeared around him. The roof was cracked lightly, there was a candle burning, he could see only the flickering yellow light, and then he saw the sun again, the golden glow brighter than the candle light. Under him was the hard rough surface of a makeshift bed, but the pillow beneath his head was so yielding soft. This is not my bed, I am not in my room.

It was warm inside the room, under the great heap of furs and blankets that covered him. He was sweating. Fever, he thought groggily. He felt so weak, and the pain stabbed through him when he struggled to lift his hand. He gave up the effort. His felt so weak to even raise his head from the pillow and look around. His body he could scarcely feel at all. How did I come here? He tried to remember. The fight came back in fits and flashes. The fight along the river, the white knights with their white cloaks blowing in the wind, the arrows . . .

Rhaegar. He saw the dark indigo eyes, the crowd around him, the shining white enamel plates of the kingsguard. Fear swept over him in a cold rush. Alone in the dark, he fell back into his sleep again.

This time he dreamed he was at a feast, a familiar feast in some great hall. He had a high seat on the dais, and was sitting on his mother's lap, smiling at his father. Rhaegar was there too, with his wife and kingsguard. His uncle threw him in the air making him laugh before catching him again. Everyone was smiling for a time. When the song was over, he was alone amongst the butchered men. Rhaegar was standing against him, only him.

He woke up before he got to him. His breath was heavy in his chest and the room was now filled with vague light. He saw the golden glow again and when it came near him he saw that it was not the sun but a woman with golden hair gleaming in the candle light. She watched him intently and when he tried to move she reached for him. She put her arms around his shoulder and helped him to sit straight on the bed. Andrew groaned at the pain in his body and settled against the headboard of the bed. When he looked down he was clothed in a fresh white tunic and red breeches. He brought a hand to his leg where the injury was the worst, his every movement pained and fumbling. His fingers found stiff cloth where they should have found flesh and skin. Linen. His upper body was bandaged tightly as well, from his chest to his waist.

He looked up at the woman who had saved him. "Where am I?" he muttered gritting his teeth at the pain.

She looked at him with soft eyes. "Still in Braavos," she said and brought a cup to his mouth. "Here drink this, it will help ease the pain." Inside the cup the drink was some murky liquid. Atleast he could drink it without fearing for poison, if she had wanted him dead he would not have lived this long. Andrew took a sip of it and it tasted bitter. It was a slow process to drink it down but he managed with the pain somehow.

"Thank you," he sighed. "For saving me." Even the small effort left him dizzied. "Where, are we? What, what place?" It hurt to talk, but Andrew had been too long in silence.

"You are in my room. A place near the Drowned Town. You were too injured to move you back to your place and I don't know where you lived."

Drowned Town. Did I swim all the way here past the Ragman's Harbor? "Thank you," Andrew said again.

The woman smiled and him and moved over to the fire burning in the fireplace nearby. An iron stew pot was hanging over the fireplace suspended from an iron rod. She used a cloth and took the pot away from the fire. Inside, the water was steaming hot, Andrew knew that from the steams coming from the vessel. The woman pressed a piece of linen in the hot water and moved over to him. She folded the cloth once and placed it on his forehead.

He must have been truly fortunate to have her find him first that day. He wondered how long he had stayed asleep. It doesn't matter anyway, Rhaegar was gone, alive and Andrew had missed his chance for justice. He wondered if that was why the gods had let him live. Andrew remembered his dream and his parents. "You don't belong here son," his father had said. Perhaps I don't belong there until I've killed Rhaegar.

When she was done with the cloth in his forehead she helped him out of his tunic. "Be still now, I must wash your wound," the woman said in a voice soft as a kiss. She discarded the bandages, still crusty with potion. After a moment he felt cool air on his skin. There was pain as well, but he did his best to ignore that. Her touch was gentle, the water warm and soothing. The wound, Andrew thought, remembering the sudden punches of arrows. "This is like to sting some but it'll help you heal faster," the woman warned as she wet a cloth with wine that smelled of crushed herbs. It did more than sting. It traced a line of fire all the way across Andrew's body, and twisted a burning poker up his chest right to his heart. His fingers clawed the bedclothes and he sucked in his breath, but somehow he managed not to scream. "It is wise to leave the bandages in place until the wound is completely healed. I'll bind you up."

She left him only to return with some soft clothes and fresh linens for bandages. Andrew looked at her as she sat working. She was only a girl, no more than thirteen or fourteen. One look was all it took for him to identify her as a girl from Westeros. She smelled clean and of flowers which indicated as highborn.

"You're from Westeros aren't you?" Andrew asked her as she wrapped the linen around his chest.

The girl blinked at him. "No," she said and continued her work.

"Don't lie to me, my lady. I know a Westerosi when I see one."

She raised her eyebrow at him. "And how'd you know that?"

Andrew chuckled lightly, hurting himself in the process. "I am from Westeros and I have seen them."

"I'm sorry," she said, "But you're wrong this time, I'm not from Westeros."

"Yeah, right," he had to chuckle. His body was stiff and sore, as if he had been working and honing his skills for several days continuously. He looked at her once more and he knew half of what he had wanted to know about her. "Your sweet voice even makes a lie sound like a melody, my lady. But I know better. Green eyes, golden hair and a face that would make kings give up their kingdoms for a single look. You're a Lannister, aren't you?"

The girl stopped her work and Andrew could see her face flushed. She is a Lannister. He had known them of course, seen them when he was in Westeros. His father was always wary around the Lannisters and held none of them in good regard. What is a Lannister doing so far away from home?

The girl was not yet ready to admit it. "I'm not a Lannister," she said again and went on with binding up his wounds. She was really a sweet girl, Andrew thought as he saw her. Anyone else in her place would've thrown him out of the room and leave him to die for what he did now. "I would fall for your lie but the truth is etched clearly in your face," he said when she moved down to his waist. She never looked at him but continued with her clothes and linen. "Too much beauty is always dangerous, my lady." When she looked at him, startled he continued, "Don't worry, my lady. Your secret is safe with me."

She worked in silence. Only when she moved to his knee did she spoke up. "I'm not a Lannister," she said as she cleaned the bloodied linens. "I'm Joy Hill, bastard daughter of Gerion Lannister."

So a half Lannister but her looks said otherwise. Andrew was glad that she trusted him enough to say her name. Joy had no reason to trust him. He came to her as a half-dead killer, she had no reason to help him as well. By bringing him into her house she had put herself in danger. She must've been really good and sweet to do this to him.

"Well, thank you, Lady Joy," he said with a smile. "I'm Andrew Snow."

Joy smiled at him and washed his knee with warm water before wrapping it up with clean linen. She stood up gathering the bloodied linens and cotton. "They're still searching for you," Joy said looking down at him. "If you want you can stay here until you could walk properly."

Without waiting for a reply Joy walked away from him. Andrew watched her for a long time. He had forgotten that there was goodness in the world, looking at Joy he could only admit that there was still goodness left in the world.

* * *

 _ **A/N: Everyone's favorite wolf is back. Lol. Leave a review. I'd love to hear your thoughts.**_


	26. Chapter 26

_**Rhaegar**_

Across the still blue water came the slow steady beat of drums and the soft swish of oars from the nearby galleys. The great warship groaned louder than them, its heavy oars splashing the waters on either side. Balerion's sails billowed in the wind from the masts. There were only fewer men in the ships now than when they had first sailed from King's Landing. Yet even so, as he stood upon the forecastle watching a cloudless blue sky, Rhaegar Targaryen happy to return home to his wife, children and sister.

On the day the three ships had lifted anchor at Braavos, he had no reason to be happy about leaving for Westeros. His kingsguard was dead, half of the men he had taken to Braavos was dead. Even the Iron bank was not happy with the mess and his sudden leaving. Only when he got away from the waters of Braavos did he felt happy for the first time in the entire journey. The Iron bank can go to hell when he can return to his family alive unlike all the other unlucky men who had died in Braavos never to see their families back in Westeros again. He has other friends in Essos, great magisters and maesters with their armies of highly trained Unsullied and other sellsword companies. If he had any need of a army he could very well get the Unsullied and the sellsword companies to the shores of Westeros.

No army could stand against them. The highly trained army in the world with their spiked bronze hats. Rhaegar had seen Unsullied guards in the Free Cities, posted at the gates of magisters, archons, and dynasts. Most of them had been household guards. But the real army and the best of the Unsullied were in Astapor. Raised only to stand and fight the Unsullied of Astapor were the pride of the city he had heard his Magister friends from Astapor say. They have even told him the tale of the Three Thousand of Qohor.

It was some four hundred years ago or more, he couldn't remember it correctly. But it was when the Dothraki first rode out of the east, sacking and burning every town and city in their path. The Khal who had led them was some horselord named Temmo. His khalasar was big, if not huge. He had forgotten the numbers they had told him but fifty thousand riders rode with him in his khalasar, at the least. Half of them braided warriors with bells ringing in their hair, veteran warriors who had never lost any fight.

Somehow the Qohorik knew that the khal was coming for them. They strengthened their walls, doubled the size of their own guard, and had hired two free companies besides, the Bright Banners and the Second Sons. And almost as an afterthought, they had sent a man to Astapor to buy three thousand Unsullied. It was a long march back to Qohor, however, and as they approached they saw the smoke and dust and heard the distant din of battle.

By the time the Unsullied reached the city the sun had set. Crows and wolves were feasting beneath the walls on what remained of the Qohorik heavy horse. The Bright Banners and Second Sons had fled, as sellswords are wont to do in the face of hopeless odds. When the dark came, the Dothraki had retired to their own camps to drink and dance and feast, but none doubted that they would return on the morrow to smash the city gates, storm the walls, and rape, loot, and slave as they pleased.

But when dawn broke and Temmo and his bloodriders led their khalasar out of camp, they found three thousand Unsullied drawn up before the gates with the Black Goat standard flying over their heads. So small a force could easily have been flanked, but the Dothraki knew nothing of that, nothing of battle strategies and war lessons. All they knew was to charge at their enemy and cleave them with their sharp, curved arakh. The Unsullied were men on foot, and for the Dothraki men on foot were fit only to be ridden down.

The Dothraki charged. The Unsullied locked their shields, lowered their spears, and stood firm. Against twenty thousand screamers with bells in their hair, they stood firm.

Eighteen times the Dothraki charged, and broke themselves on those shields and spears like waves on a rocky shore. Thrice Temmo sent his archers wheeling past and arrows fell like rain upon the Three Thousand, but the Unsullied merely lifted their shields above their heads until the squall had passed. In the end only six hundred of them remained . . . but more than twelve thousand Dothraki had laid dead upon that field, including Khal Temmo, his bloodriders, his kos, and all his sons. On the morning of the fourth day, the new khal had led the survivors past the city gates in a stately procession. One by one, each man had cut off his braid and threw it down before the feet of the Three Thousand.

Since that day, the city guard of Qohor has been made up solely of Unsullied, every one of whom carries a tall spear from which hangs a braid of human hair.

If he brings an army of Unsullied to Westeros he could very well sleep in his bed without fearing for a knife over his throat while he sleeps. They will make songs about it in the Seven Kingdoms. Rhaegar's Unsullied they'll call it. Though what good it'll ever do. They sang songs of him now, how great a warrior and a king he is. A great warrior who hid behind his army while a single man scattered them all around. A great king who stood by and watched his people getting killed by some nameless boy with grey eyes.

He remembered another pair of grey eyes and another battle he had once faced. A battle amidst the woods of the wolves... He turned away from the water shaking away his thoughts. It would do no good to dwell in the past or to think either of them.

Quiet as a shadow the red priest appeared at his elbow. "Would that this Balerion could soar as her namesake did, Your Grace," he said in bastard Valyrian heavily flavored with accents of Asshai. "Then we should not need to row, nor tow, nor pray for wind."

"Just so, my lord," Rhaegar answered with a smile. He was pleased to have Bezzaro with him. The red priest had been with him ever since his first son had born. His robes were red, his hair red with a red beard reaching his chest. There were no lines on his face to indicate his forty two years of age, his skin as smooth and clear as a child's. Bezzaro knew things, he knew about things which would help in the Great War. The war between R'hllor the Lord of Light against the Great Other as Bezzaro likes to call it. The clash of Ice and Fire, evil and good. Bezzaro was convinced that he along with his sons and sister will defeat the great other and save the world. Rhaegar believed him. He had seen things Bezzaro can do what others cannot, he had seen this Red god he talks of. Perhaps he should have kept Bezzaro with him that day in Braavos. He could have saved all of them who died, even Jaime Lannister. The red priest had left him at once they reached Braavos to visit the Temple of the Lord of Light and he had stayed there for their entire stay in Braavos.

"The Lord of the Light smiles upon our journey, Your Grace," Bezzaro said in a deep voice, deep as if it was from the depths of the seven hells. "The wind is in our favor."

Rhaegar could not have denied that. For the last six days and six nights the wind had failed them and they had been becalmed. And only by Bezzaro's prayers on the sixth night the red god had given them the wind to move faster and a fresh breath of air to fill their sails.

"Tell me Bezzaro, If you know everything that is going to happen why didn't you warn me about Braavos?"

"You get me wrong, your Grace," Bezzaro told him. "I can only see what the Lord of the Light allows me to see."

Rhaegar found the anger getting better of him. "They why did your Lord of the Light didn't let you see that." He turned to look at the priest. "I took my men straight to the jaws of death, same as I had once done eleven years before. Does that mean your red god wanted them dead?"

"R'hllor is our god, my king, not just mine," Bezzaro answered. "There is only him and the Great Other. R'hllor the Lord of the Light, the Heart of Fire, the God of Flame and Shadow and The Great Other, whose name must not be spoken, the Lord of Darkness, the Soul of Ice, the God of Night and Terror. They are locked in an eternal struggle over the fate of the world; a struggle that will only end when Azor Ahoi, the warrior of light returns wielding Lightbringer, the red sword of heroes."

Rhaegar frowned. He had heard him say that more than a hundred times. That was not he wanted to hear. "That does not answer my question."

"The Lord of the Light only grant me the visions he wishes me to see, my king." The red priest looked to the horizon where the sun had started to set. "If the Lord of the Light wishes for that to happen no one could stop that."

"What good comes from these visions if we can't learn from them and change them?" Rhaegar snorted.

"Come, Your Grace," Bezzaro said turning away from the sea. "Night is settling. We should go inside for the night is dark and full of terrors."

The sea had turned black as ink and the swollen sun tinted the sky a deep and bloody red. Frowning Rhaegar followed him back to the red priest's cabin. As always there was a fire burning in the brazier and the cabin was so bright that every corner and end of it was filled with the light of the fire.

"You worry over nothing, Your Grace," Bezzaro said working in the fire of the brazier. "These petty wars you fought in the north will mean nothing before your final one. You are destined for greatness. It is with your help the three heads of the dragon will defeat the Great Other and bring back dawn."

"With my help?" Rhaegar chuckled. "Those petty wars you mentioned, I lost them. How am I going to win the great war?"

Bezzaro turned to face him. "It is not just a legacy you're seeking for, your grace. You seek the higher truth." He pointed to the fires in the brazier. "Come, my king. Come see the truth."

Hesitant and wary Rhaegar moved forward to the brazier.

Bezzaro grasped his hand in his. "Let me show you the truth, Your Grace. Look into the fire."

Rhaegar opened his eyes wide and looked into the brazier to face the fire.

Visions danced before him, gold and scarlet, flickering, forming and melting and dissolving into one another, shapes strange and terrifying and seductive. He saw a great star burning with fire red as blood. From a broken tower by a great castle, a winged beast came down falling dead to the ground. He saw towers by the sea, crumbling as the dark tide came sweeping over them, rising from the depths. He saw a great winged shadow taking flight from a white tower crowned with flame. Through curtains of fire he saw dragons wheeling against a hard blue sky though there were more, not just the three his sister had brought to this world.

"Did you see the truth, my king?" Bezzaro asked when he turned away from the fires.

"I saw visions," Rhaegar replied.

"You saw what the Lord of the Light wanted you to see," the red priest said and moved over to tend to the fire.

"I saw a red star, like the one which appeared on the day I was attacked," Rhaegar told him. "Does that mean it will happen again?"

"Maybe."

Then I should keep my sword ready, Rhaegar thought. But there were other things which troubled him more than that. The winged shadow from the white tower with flames. He tried to think hard about it, to make it more clear. The Hightower sigil was a white tower with flames burning on its top. Can the Hightowers be working against him? Was Ser Gerold betraying him like Arthur Dayne had done?

Lord Leyton Hightower was Arthur and Ashara Dayne's grandfather on their mother's side. Alysanne Hightower was Leyton's favorite child and Arthur had once told him that Ashara Dayne was Lady Alysanne's favorite. Are they trying to get revenge for what happened to Ashara and her family? The last he heard of Lord Leyton is that he has locked himself atop his tower with his daughter the Mad Maid Malora, consulting books of spells. The smallfolk whispered that he is trying to raise an army from the deeps. Can the Hightowers be plotting against him from the shadows? Is that what the winged shadow meant? If they were indeed plotting against him he would happily send them to be together with the Daynes and the Starks.

And then there was the fiery dance of dragons.

"I saw dragons," Rhaegar said to the red priest. "There was more, not just the three my sister brought forth with your help."

Bezzaro gave him a surprised look.

"There were two more," Rhaegar continued of his vision. "One as bright gold as the sun and the other silver as the moon. They were fighting with the other three."

Bezzaro looked confused at that. The surprise from his face had turned to confusion.

"They were fighting?"

Rhaegar nodded.

"Do you think these three dragons are enough for us to fight the Night King?" He asked after a moment of silence.

"You can never know what the Great Other can do, Your Grace," Bezzaro said.

"Can we raise more dragons from stones?"

"Of course, we can, my king," the red priest said with a wicked smile. "But you know the price."

* * *

 _ **A/N: So, the red star, the Hightower secret and more visions. Say what you thought about them in the comments. I'd love to hear your thoughts.**_

 _ **Thanks for reading my story. Leave a review. Thanks for all the follows and favorites and all the reviews. I really appreciate it.**_

 _ **I'm not a native speaker so I'm still in search for a beta. If anyone is interested please PM me. Thank you.**_


	27. Chapter 27

Daenerys

The red comet had started to fade as an old would in the sky. No one knew when it had appeared and it was fading from the sky as it had appeared. Though it was fading, Dany could see it clearly against the bloodshot sky of the evening from her balcony in the Red Keep. Can this comet mean something about her visions from her House of the Undying? Dany remembered all the things she had heard and seen there that day but none included a red comet. She would want to ask her brother about it when he returns.

The peasants said a thousand things about it. Fool's talk was what Ser Jorah had told her when she asked him about it. But Dany was not so convinced with any of it. She believed that it was sent for a reason by the Gods.

"What do you think about the comet, ser?" Dany asked him.

"I don't have much knowledge about stars, Princess," Ser Jorah replied from beside her. "It means different thing to different people. And that is because no one knows the true story behind it. Ask a Septon he would say it is the sword of the Warrior, the glory of the Seven, ask a Maester he would say it marks the end of the season, ask a peasant he would say a dozen stories about it at a single time, ask another one he would have another tale to tell. Ask a wise man about it, he would tell you to pay no mind to it as you would do with the other stars in the night sky."

Dany laughed. "So you tend to be a wise man, Ser Jorah?"

"I tend to be no one, Princess," said her knight. "But it is wise to leave it away from your thoughts and get on with your work. It does no good to dwell on it."

The Master of the Ships Aurane Waters chuckled from the other side of the balcony at that. Dany had misliked the Bastard of Driftmark at first but she had taken a quick liking to his mischievous smirks and hidden grins for her and his japes for Jorah after he saved her from the Qartheen Manticore and the warlock assassin.

Dany turned to face him. "Do you know something about the comet, my lord?"

"I'll not make any claims that I know about it, Princess," Aurane Waters said. "But I've heard some interesting things about it."

"Go on," Dany asked him to continue.

"You see, princess, people see that comet above and talk about only one thing," Aurane leaned onto the balcony and looked to the comet. "The Born King. They say that the gods have sent the comet to herald the return of the Born King."

Ser Jorah frowned beside her. "Another one of the fool's talk."

Aurane gave him a quick smile. "Easy for you to say, Ser. But I suppose your family in the north will be thinking of it in the same way."

"Who is the Born King?" Dany asked.

The look both Aurane and Ser Jorah was of a surprised one.

"You haven't heard of it?" Aurane asked.

Dany shook her head.

"It's nothing but a peasant tale, Princess," Ser Jorah said. "An old legend from the north while your brother took the kingdom from Eddard Stark. It had stayed dead for some years now but the comet has given life to it again."

"The Outlaw is dead though," Dany said. She had heard those stories many times when she was a little girl. "What is this legend anyway?"

"It's about Stark's son," Ser Jorah said. "He is dead, killed along with his father and mother. Though there are some commonfolk who believe that he is still alive and would return."

Dany thought about the House of the Undying. She had not heard or seen anything about this Born King they told her of. Perhaps, he could be one of those who would betray her. The warlocks had promised that she would know three treasons, one for blood, one for gold and one for love. Can this Born King be one of them? And Quathie had warned about other enemies and dangers as well. Was he one of it? But Quaithe had said nothing about this Born King though. Anyway, she would want to keep Drogon close. She looked up at the evening sky but she could not find her black dragon anywhere.

"I cannot see Drogon," Dany told them. "Has he gone again?"

Of late Drogon has gone restless. He never stayed in one place. One day he was in King's Landing and the next people saw him in Dragonstone. He flew all around Westeros and other places as well much to Dany's chagrin. He was flying around the Red Keep only a moment before and now he had disappeared again. She had heard that her dragon had made his lair in Dragonstone. Maybe he had gone there again. Of late Drogon spent most of his days away from her and King's Landing that Dany was in mind to lock him in the Dragonpit. "I think I should lock him up in the Dragonpit. But my brother says that it will affect his growth. Do you know how big a dragon can grow?"

"In the singer's songs, there are tales of dragons who grew so huge that they could pluck giant krakens from the seas," Ser Jorah said.

Dany giggled. Drogon was already large enough to hunt whales from the seas. But he needs to grow more if he is to pull krakens from the seas. "That would be a wondrous sight to see."

"It is only a tale, Princess," said her exile knight. "They talk of wise old dragons living a thousand years as well."

"Well, how long does a dragon live?" She looked up searching for Drogon but she could not find him.

Ser Jorah shrugged. "A dragon's natural span of days is many times as long as a man's, or so the songs would have us believe . . . but the dragons the Seven Kingdoms knew best were those of House Targaryen. They were bred for war, and in war they died. It is no easy thing to slay a dragon, but it can be done."

Aurane Waters walked beside them and said, "Balerion the Black Dread was two hundred years old when he died during the reign of Jaehaerys the Conciliator. He was so large he could swallow an aurochs whole. A dragon never stops growing, Princess, so long as he has food and freedom."

"Freedom?" asked Dany, curious. "What do you mean?"

"Your brother is right, Princess." He pointed to the distant dragonpit standing atop on the Hill of Rhaenys. It had been ruin at first but her brother had returned it to its former glory so that they could house their dragons if it was needed. "Your ancestors raised that immense domed castle for their dragons. The Dragonpit. That is where the royal dragons dwelt in days of yore, and a cavernous dwelling it is, with iron doors so wide that thirty knights could ride through them abreast. Yet even so, it was noted that none of the pit dragons ever reached the size of their ancestors. The maesters say it was because of the walls around them, and the great dome above their heads."

"If walls could keep us small, peasants would all be tiny and kings as large as giants," said Ser Jorah. "I've seen huge men born in hovels, and dwarfs who dwell in castles."

"Men are men," Aurane replied with a wink at her, making her blush. "Dragons are dragons."

Ser Jorah snorted his disdain. "How profound." The northman had no love for the Master of Ships, he'd made that plain from the first. "What do you know of dragons, anyway?"

"Little enough that I've seen them with my own eyes," Aurane Waters said. "And I've read books you can't read."

Dany giggled at that. Ser Jorah frowned and Aurane continued. "You see the dragon skulls in the Throne room Princess, the skulls near the Iron Throne belongs to Balerion and Vhagar."

"I know of that," said Dany. "The dragons from Aegon's conquest. They were the largest of the Targaryen dragons."

"Exactly," Aurane said pushing his silver hair away from his face. He looked so much a Targaryen then. "That's what happens to dragons who have freedom, Princess. Your ancestors had other dragons as well. You can see their skulls too. Fierce dragons like Caraxes, Vermithor, Meleys... but none could match the might of Balerion or Vhagar. Because Balerion and Vhagar grew up in the open world while the others were raised in the Dragonpit."

"So no Dragonpit for Drogon then?" Dany asked smiling.

Aurane moved near her and placed his hand above hers. "No Dragonpit for Drogon."

When Dany turned to see him he had a smile on his lips. Dany could feel the blood rising up to her cheeks. She turned away from him but did not pull her hand from his.


	28. Chapter 28

_**Samwell**_

The courtyard rang to the song of swords. If there was one song that Samwell Tarly hated more than anything is that the song of swords and the clang of swords and steel. It frightened him and shook him to the core.

Under the fur-trimmed surcoat, sweat trickled icily down Sam's chest even though he had not even entered the spar. They had not even given the time for him to rest or to even change his clothes and Sam walked clumsily to the yard in his finest clothes, A fur-trimmed surcoat of green velvet with the striding huntsman of House Tarly worked in scarlet thread upon the breast. Two of the old recruits were hacking at each other. Looking at them alone made Sam tremble from head to heel. Yet he still walked forth to join them in the yard where Castle Black's knight master was training the other recruits who had arrived here before him.

Sam himself was the last one to reach Castle Black but for him, the long journey from Horn Hill to the Wall was a quick one. His father's men wasted no time as they brought him to Castle Black. Once they brought him in they left him in the new place all on his own and spurred their horses back eager to return home. And here he was in his new home, a place he never knew, a place where he knows no one and that frightened him even more.

The recruits were hacking and slashing at each other in the yard as he neared them. Will they ask me to do that as well? Sam thought. He will definitely put down his sword and cry the next moment they put him against someone. The recruits broke off as the one facing him saw him approaching them. He opened his visor and turned to the one he was sparring against. "Would you look at that, Edd?"

The other one turned to look at him and the other recruits fell in beside them. Sam brought himself in front of them afraid of what they might say about him. His breath was heavy in his chest, result of the quick walk to the yard. "I am Samwell Tarly of Horn Hill," he managed to say. "I've come to take the black."

"Come to take the black pudding," one of the recruits said. The other recruits laughed at that.

"Enough!" The master at arms had a voice with an edge like Valyrian steel. He strode toward him, crisp black leathers whispering faintly as he moved. He was a compact man of fifty years, spare and hard, with grey in his black hair and eyes like chips of onyx. He looked him up and down and said, "It would seem they have run short of poachers and thieves down south. Now they send us pigs to man the Wall. Is fur and velvet your notion of armor, my Lord of Ham?"

"I have brought my own armor," Sam replied, voice shaking.

"Go dress in your armor then, Ser Piggy," the master-at-arms of Castle Black said. "That would keep off the swords from slicing off your meat."

Breathless Sam hurried back to the room where he had kept his clothes and other things. He took his armor to the Master-at-arms; a padded doublet, boiled leather, mail and plate and helm. Sam took his shield as well, a great wood-and-leather shield blazoned with the striding huntsman.

When the knight saw his colored clothing he chuckled. "The Wall is no place for your colored finery, Ser Piggy. You shall have all of it dyed black. For now get to the armory and get a new set of armor."

Afraid of the man Sam hurried away to the armory, half walking and half running.

The armorer inspected at his armor when he showed it to him. "That is a fine armor you've got there," the armorer said. "But the colors should have to go out. Leave it here, you shall have it once I dye it black."

Sam placed his armor on the table. He had no problem in leaving the armor and shield. He would've gladly given them away since it was of no use to him or rather he was of no use to an armor as his father had liked to tell him.

The armorer gave the briefest of glances to him and turned over to look at his tables and the stone wall behind him from where a dozen set of armors and swords hung from hooks. "Looks like we've got nothing to match you, boy."

Sam felt a sudden relief at that. No armor meant that he did not have to fight. He sat heavily on the long wooden bench and allowed himself a moment to savor the relief. But it didn't last long though as the armorer collected some different pieces of different armors and put them on the table to work on it.

"It'll take sometime boy," the armorer said as he cut some leather straps. "Thorne can go to hell."

It took half the morning for the armorer to fix a set of armor for him. His girth required the armorer to take apart a mail hauberk and refit it with leather panels at the sides. To get a helm over his head the armorer had to detach the visor. His leathers bound so tightly around his legs and under his arms that he could scarcely move.

"Let us hope you are not as inept as you look," the master-at-arms said when he saw him dressed in the armor. "Rast, see what Ser Piggy can do."

Next thing he knew, Sam found himself facing a short and stout boy who was dressed up in a black armor as well.

Afraid, Sam raised his blunted sword against the other recruit. The recruit named Rast knocked his sword away from his hand with a savage blow, the shock of impact running up his arm as the swords crashed together. Another blow to his covered belly had him on the hard-packed ground of the yard.

"I yield," he shrilled. "No more, I yield, don't hit me."

Even then, the master-at-arms would not call an end. "On your feet, Ser Piggy," he called. "Pick up your sword." When he continued to cling to the ground, the master-at-arms sounded again. "Hit him with the flat of your blade until he finds his feet." Rast delivered a tentative smack to his back. "You can hit harder than that," the master-at-arms said to his foe again. The boy Rast brought his sword down so hard the blow split leather, even on the flat and found his flesh. Sam screeched in pain. His whole body shook as blood leaked through his shattered helm and between his fingers.

"On your feet," the master-at-arms repeated. Sam struggled to rise. His palms and fingers were so sweaty that he slipped, and fell heavily again. "Ser Piggy is starting to grasp the notion," the master-at-arms observed. "Again."

Sam was waiting for another blow to fall when he heard the sound. "That's, enough."

Sam looked for the voice. Three of the recruits had backed him up.

"I remind you that I am the master-at-arms here, Tollet." The master-at-arms said in that sharp, cold voice of his.

"He yielded," the one named Tollet urged, ignoring the master-at-arms as best he could. "There's no honor in beating a fallen foe." He knelt beside him and helped to his feet.

Rast lowered his sword. "He yielded," he echoed.

The master-at-arms' onyx eyes were fixed on him. If he was not angry before he was now. Sam could see it clearly. The master-at-arms smiled. "Dolorous Edd wishes to defend his lady love, so we shall make an exercise of it. Stone Head, Pimple, help our Rat here." Two of the other recruits moved to join his foe. And another two joined to help Tollet.

Sam saw the fight from the side opposite to the master-at-arms. The recruits on the side of his foe were big men but the recruits who had helped him stood their ground. One by one the recruits who had helped him knocked the other recruits' swords away.

The master-at-arms surveyed the scene with disgust. "The mummer's farce has gone on long enough for today." He walked away. Sam knew the session was at an end.

When he was gone, Sam moved over to the recruits who helped him. "Let me," he told. Sam unfastened helm from gorget and lifted it off gently. "Did he hurt you?"

"I've been bruised before." Tollet touched his shoulder and winced. The yard was emptying around them.

Blood matted Sam's hair where Rast had split his helm asunder. "My name is Samwell Tarly. I . . . if you want, you can call me Sam. My mother calls me Sam."

"You can call him Dolorous Edd," Pyp said as he came up to join them. "You don't want to know what his mother calls him."

"These two are Grenn and Pypar," Edd said. He was a thin boy, sour and grey haired.

"Grenn's the ugly one," Pyp said.

Grenn scowled. "You're uglier than me. At least I don't have ears like a bat."

"My thanks to all of you," Sam told them.

"Why didn't you get up and fight?" Grenn demanded. "I wanted to, truly. I just . . . I couldn't. I didn't want him to hit me anymore." He looked at the ground. "I . . . I fear I'm a coward. My lord father always said so."

The recruits looked thunderstruck. No one had a word to say. Sam knew this would happen. No one likes to be with a coward. "I . . . I'm sorry," he said. "I don't mean to . . . to be like I am." He walked heavily toward the armory.

He took off the armor and hanged it on the hook. He was so tired. Sam sat on the bench for some time. Tears filled his eyes as he sat there. He left for his room afraid that someone would see him cry. He stayed in his room and sobbed in the solitude of his room until it was nightfall.

When the tears finally stopped, Sam was hungry. He walked to the common hall where they will be serving the night's food. The wind was rising, and he could hear the old wooden buildings creaking around him, and in the distance a heavy shutter banging, over and over, forgotten. Once there was a muffled thump as a blanket of snow slid from a roof and landed near him.

It took some good time before he finally reached it. He walked past half other cells and reached the great timbered common hall. Inside, the hall was immense and drafty, even with a fire roaring in its great hearth. Crows nested in the timbers of its lofty ceiling. Sam heard their cries overhead as he accepted a bowl of stew and a pork pie from the day's cooks. Edd, Pyp, Grenn and some of the other recruits were seated at the bench nearest the warmth, laughing and cursing each other in rough voices. Sam eyed them thoughtfully for a moment. Then he chose a spot at the far end of the hall, well away from the other diners.

Sam sat in the bench, alone. He pulled off his gloves and warmed his hands in the steam rising from the bowl. The smell made his mouth water. The stew was hot with barley, onion, carrot and turnip floating in it.

A group of the black brothers were dicing over mulled wine near the fire. The high officers of the Night's Watch sat together on the raised dais. Sam's bench was far from the others and he knew that he would be forever alone in this bench. He was finishing the last of the pork pie they had served for supper when a voice called out to him.

"So you're the new boy," a black brother said as he seated himself across from him with a tankard in his hand. "Thorne had something to say about you."

Sam widened his eyes and saw the man. He was a gaunt and strong man with blue-grey eyes, dressed all in black. "Th... Thorne?"

"Ser Alliser Thorne," the man said. "The master-at-arms."

Yes, Sam remembered now. How could he ever forget that man. "Wha... What did he say?"

The black brother must've realized his fears. He gave a quick look at him and then to Ser Alliser on the bench on the other end of the hall. "As usual as you could ever expect from him."

Sam was so frightened to even look at Ser Alliser so he kept his eyes down at the stew.

"You're Samwell Tarly, no?" the black brother asked.

Sam wondered how the man came to know about him. Someone must've told him of how he had cried in the yard. By now everyone would've known about him, of Sam the Craven. He nodded lightly.

"I'm Benjen Stark, the First Ranger of the Night's Watch."

Sam looked up from the stew to look at the man. Benjen Stark, the First Ranger of the Night's Watch. He had been a brother of both a king and a queen, though both ruled different kingdoms. He had no reason to sit with Sam the Craven.

Benjen Stark must have known what he was thinking about. "How do you like the Wall, Sam?" he asked.

Sam looked at him still surprised to speak. "I... I... It's too cold."

"Yes. Cold and hard and mean, that's the Wall, and the men who walk it," Ben Stark said. "But they will be your brothers soon and you'll do no good by being alone."

"I don't want to be alone," Sam admitted. He looked to the bench where the other recruits were sitting, enjoying their time together. He wanted to join them but something inside stopped him from doing so. He looked back to Benjen Stark. "But they won't want me there."

"You don't know that until you try it."

"Is that how it was for you?" Sam asked hesitantly. "So... So easy?"

"Easy?" Ben Stark snorted. "I had a brother once. You must've known about him."

Sam knew him of course. Benjen Stark was the brother of Eddard Stark, the King in the North.

"I loved him as much as a man could love his brother," Ben Stark continued. "Even now he has a place in my heart and he will have it for the rest of my days. I loved my goodsister too, as much as I loved my brother. And their little son... I loved him as if he was my own son. They were my family once and when I learnt about their death all I wanted was to go south and squeeze the lives out of all the people who had played a part in their death. But I understood it better than that. We put aside our old families when we swear our vows. My brother and his wife and son will always have a special place in my heart, but these are my brothers now." He gestured with his forefinger at the men around them, all the hard cold men in black.

"They are my family now. So tell me Samwell Tarly, do you want a family or do you want to be alone?"

Sam looked at all the men in the hall. Horn Hill was never a home for him maybe he could change Castle Black as his home. He could make them as his family. "I'd love to have a family."

"Good," said the First Ranger. "So next time I won't see you alone Samwell Tarly." With that the First Ranger of Castle Black left him to join with his brothers.

That night Sam stayed awake on his bed for a long time thinking about what Benjen Stark had said. As the First Ranger had said in the next few days Sam found himself comfortable with the place. Edd had some good talks with him. He encouraged him to join the others at the bench and Sam was hesitant about it at first. A few nights later, at Edd's urging, he joined them for the evening meal, taking a place on the bench beside Halder. It was another fortnight before he found the nerve to join their talk, but in time he was laughing at Pyp's faces and teasing Grenn with the best of them.

As he stayed in bed that day, his heart so much lighter than it had been in years Samwell Tarly thought how true Benjen Stark had been in his talk with him.

* * *

 _ **A/N: So Benjen's first appearance in the story. Did you like it? Since Jon is in KL in this story, Sam got some other people and friends to help him. Leave a review. I'd love to hear your thoughts.**_


	29. Chapter 29

_**Andrew**_

The stars began to fade in the eastern sky and Braavos was filled in the morning mist. Outside the world was grey of fogs and pink in the first light of dawn. Andrew watched them all from his bed. Watching was all he did for the past few days. He woke up, stayed in the bed, watching the canals ran beneath the room on top of a stone building half submerged under water, watching Joy taking care of her household, watching the day rises with the sun and ends with the rising of stars and then slept again. He was too weak to do anything else. His bad leg ached when he moved it or when he tried to walk. More than half a dozen time he tried to get up from the bed and get away but no sooner did he placed his legs on the floor and took a step his leg bucked under him and he ended up on the floor.

As he tried again and again to walk it seemed more like starting it all from the first again. He felt like a child who has troubles making his steps and walking his way. He remembered the time when he learned to walk for the first time in Winterfell. He had started it in the godswood with his parents both of them there with him to watch him walk. Andrew had used the Old Gods of the north as a support when he first stood on his two feet. He had leaned against the white bark of the weirwood, getting up further and further until he found his feet. He remembered how he swayed and struggled on the moss covered floor of the godswood and before he could fall his mother had reached him gathering him safe in her arms. Only now, Ashara Dayne is not here to help him nor is Eddard Stark.

Joy helped him back to the bed now every time he found himself down. She helped him to his feet every time with a certain softness gracing from her. "You shouldn't walk until I ask you to," the girl would say every time as she eases him back on the bed. He would stay in the bed hearing her words until it would bore him again and he would walk and fall again.

Andrew sat up against the headboard and watched Joy as she went on about doing her morning chores. Everyday she would've been already awake by the time he woke up. He would glance her by the fires cooking something, or going on about his medicines or bandages. Somedays he would see her sewing or saying her prayers. Everyday they would talk and the more they talked he came to know more about her.

Joy had come to Braavos with her father when she was five. Her mother was a Braavosi and Gerion Lannister had brought her to Braavos so she could see the home of her mother. Her father had left her here with a promise and a kiss and continued his voyage to Valyria to find the long lost valyrian steel sword of the Lannisters, Brightroar. Gerion Lannister had promised her to take her back to Casterly Rock when he comes back from his voyage. An empty promise, Andrew thought sadly. No one enters Valyria and comes back alive to tell the tale of it. Darker stuff and remnants of the blood magic still reigned heavily in the ruined city and the air was filled with the use of dark arts. Even the Smoking Sea around the ruined city was dangerous as the land itself. Filled with volcanoes and smoking stacks of rock, it is said to boil in places and to be haunted by demons. Andrew had known many a men who had boasted of braving the Smoking Sea to enter the ruined city and get the treasures that might have survived the Doom of Valyria. But none of them did very much neared even the Smoking Sea. They would return back defeated and empty-handed.

Joy had faith in her father though. Even after all these years she still prayed for her father to come back. She still believed that her father would come back. Andrew felt sad for her. She was a sweet girl. She had hope that her father would return and he had no mind to break her hope just like that. He might even want to thank Gerion Lannister for briging her here. If it wasn't for her he would've been dead already.

After her father had left Joy lived with her mother, Briony. When Gerion Lannister did not return as he told he would, it broke Joy's mother. After her mother's death Joy made her life on her own here in Braavos waiting for her father. And it was then she found him almost dead on the streets one day. Her mother had been a healer and Joy had learnt the arts of healing from her mother. It was with those arts she saved him and took care of him.

He watched her as she went on to put a kettle over the fire. It has been long since Andrew had seen a sight so lovely as her. Joy may be a Hill but her looks proclaimed her as a Lannister. Everything about her screamed of the Lannisters of Casterly Rock and she was the utmost peak of the fabled Lannister beauty. Even in the gloomy fogs of Braavos she glowed so bright like the sun. Her golden hair caught even the faintest of the light and gleamed as if it was of molten gold. Her glittering emerald eyes were always kind and even in her simple gowns she was so beautiful and graceful as a queen.

She took the kettle and came to him with the kettle of steaming hot water and fresh new linens. "We need to change your bandages," she said.

When Andrew sat in a comfortable position she started her work.

"Are they still searching for me?" Andrew asked her, as Joy ran a blade up the linens of his chest, slicing the thin white cloth, crusty with old blood and sodden with new.

Joy gave a barest of her glances to his bandages. "Yes. They are likely to continue it for some more time. Highborn and their pride... They would want the man dead who had sent them running for their life."

"Rhaegar," Andrew winced as the girl's finger explored his wound, poking and prodding. "Is he here too—aaaaah, that hurts." He clenched his teeth. "Where are the men of Westeros?"

"They have left with their survivors." Joy's words hurt a hundred times worse than her fingers. Andrew remembered the dragon as last he'd seen him, standing behind his army with his men surrounding all around him. He has gone? Andrew had missed the chance for his justice.

"They left the place all of a sudden. They were searching for you as well and one day they just left. There were many men reported to be death and some disappeared too. "

Search for them in the canals and they would find their bones in the bottom. He knew he had killed many men that day but all he had wanted was to get to Rhaegar but the others put themselves between him and Rhaegar.

"Why did you saved me?" Andrew asked Joy as she patched up the wound on his chest. "You have put yourself at danger by helping me. Why did you helped me?"

Joy looked at him with her green eyes shining in the candlelight. "I don't know," she said as she applied some paste on the wound at his waist. "I brought you to my room at once I saw you. When I knew that it was you who killed all those men I just wanted to leave you away to your death." She looked up at him as she took the fresh linen in her hand.

Wrapping the linen around him she continued. "But when I saw you just lying on the bed it felt as if you wanted to live," Joy said. She wrapped it around him twice more and cut the linen and bound it. "All of them were dead but you were alive. The gods let you live for some reason."

Aye, they let me live to doom Rhaegar and his family. A stab of pain reminded him of his own woes. Joy squeezed his hand. "You are not yet properly healed. Sudden movements will not help you heal. Here drink this."

Andrew tried to rise. "I don't need—"

"You do," Joy said firmly. "This will hurt." Joy took a green flask and a rounded stone cup in her hand and poured it full. "Drink this."

Andrew had bitten his lip in his struggles. He could taste blood mingled with the thick, chalky potion. It was all he could do not to retch it back up. He coughed, trying desperately to keep the liquid down. "What was that?"

"Milk of the poppy," Joy said as she dabbed a cotton cloth in a basin of warm water, and washed the wound on his thigh. Gentle as she was, even the lightest touch made Andrew twitch his leg. It was his leg which took the worst of it. The arrow had pierced his leg from front to right through the back of his leg.

"Why did you killed them all?" Joy asked. "Did you came for the king? Did someone wanted the king dead?"

I wanted him dead, Andrew would've said. That and much more if it wasn't for the pain on his leg.

"You can say it like that," Andrew told her.

"One of the men you killed was my cousin," Joy said. "He was a kingsguard and a good man."

So the dead kingsguard was her cousin then. Andrew shrugged. "Never knew him," he told her. His thoughts went more and more to his uncle Arthur. Noble, honorable and fun-loving uncle. "My uncle was a kingsguard once. When I was a little boy in Westeros I've looked at the kingsguard as if they were some kind of heroes. I even wanted to join them. But as I grew up I came to understand that they are the worst of them all."

Joy paused, washcloth in her hand. "Will you go again to kill him?"

He never knew the answer for that. He didn't know how he would kill Rhaegar again. He might've burrowed beneath the walls of his castle for safety now and scaling a unknown castle and getting inside to kill him will be a difficult thing.

"I don't know," Andrew admitted.

Joy finished bandaging his thigh and stood up with the ruined linen and clothes. She looked down at him. Her green eyes were still soft as summer grass. "If you got injured then good luck finding someone to help you."

* * *

 _ **A/N: So some relationship build-up in this chapter. Leave a review about it. Thank you for everyone who left a review and everyone who followed/favorited the story.**_


	30. Chapter 30

_**Tyrion**_

The rainfall was continuous that Tyrion rode in wet clothes everyday. Three days ride from Riverrun they found upon the first fall of the summer rain and it had never stopped after that. Tyrion huddled himself in a hooded bearskin cloak and rode through the rain without complaint. But the rain was not the best of his concern. As they came away from the domains of Riverrun there were talks of raw bandits harassing the small folk on the lands, hiding away from the eyes of the river lords. The more they rode away from the stronghold the more the talks of raids they heard.

They were attacked for the first time when they were spending a night in the woods east to the Hills of the Golden Tooth away from Pinkmaiden. The bandits were a small party consisting of five men but was enough to overwhelm Tyrion's party of three, him and the two guards who had accompanied him from Casterly Rock, Jyck and Morrec. Suddenly the bandits had come thundering out of the dark blanket of the night. Though they were outnumbered Tyrion's party had managed to get away alive from it with Jyck dead. He had put on a bold show and rode bareback to charge at the bandits and got cut from behind while he sliced open at a man on his front. Jyck had been the good sword of the three and it was a bad blow for Tyrion to lose him.

The second attack came two days after that in the break of dawn. This time Tyrion lost Morrec to a festered wound but he found himself alive with the help of a sellsword named Bronn. The sellsword had come out of nowhere and fought the bandits cutting them left and right. Tyrion never knew why the sellsword bothered helping him but he could see that the man thought to earn some gold from him assuming him as a lord by seeing his clothes. And paid him Tyrion did with the little gold he had and with promises of more. After all, A Lannister always pays his debts. Bronn stuck with him afterwards, getting the smell of gold as any sellsword would do. Tyrion had no problems with it though, Bronn was almost as good as his brother Jaime with a sword in hand and the way to Casterly Rock was so long. He might need his help again.

As dusk came creeping in from the west, Tyrion stopped his horse. The rain had finally stopped and the trees were so thick and close that it made a natural shelter from the rain if it was to come again. Tyrion knew that the next time he would have a roof above his will be when they reach Golden Tooth, the stronghold of the Leffords but until then he wanted to make use of everything to keep him away from getting wet.

Bronn had no complaints to say about his decision and he took both the horses to graze them beneath the nearby trees. The sellsword acquired Morrec's horse after he had no use for it and he sat it deftly. He had pulled off Morrec's boots as well. They were good boots, as befit one of Lord Tywin's men; heavy leather, oiled and supple, much finer than what Bronn had been wearing.

They took shelter beneath a copse of aspens. Tyrion was gathering deadwood while their horses took water from a nearby stream. He stooped to pick up a splintered branch and examined it critically. "Will this do? I am not practiced at starting fires. Morrec did that for me."

"A fire?" Bronn said, spitting. "Are you so hungry to die, dwarf? Or have you taken leave of your senses? A fire will bring some other bandits down on us from miles around. I mean to survive this journey, Lannister."

"And how do you hope to do that?" Tyrion asked. He tucked the branch under his arm and poked around through the sparse undergrowth, looking for more. His back ached from the effort of bending; they had been riding since daybreak as the sun came peeking out of the east sky.

"We have no chance of fighting our way back if more of the bandits came," Bronn said, "but two can cover more ground than ten, and attract less notice. Ride hard and fast, I say."

Tyrion Lannister sighed. "A splendid plan, Bronn. Try it, as you like . . . and forgive me if I do not linger to bury you."

"You think to outlive me, dwarf?" The sellsword grinned. He had a dark gap in his smile where his tooth broke in half during the fight.

Tyrion shrugged. "Riding hard and fast by night is a sure way to run your horse into a hole and break it's leg. If our mounts die under us we'll have a hard time reaching Casterly Rock. We need a fire. The nights are cold up here with the rain, and hot food will warm our bellies and lift our spirits. Speaking of food we might need to find some since the supplies I've brought from Riverrun has run out."

"I can find meat." Beneath a fall of black hair, Bronn's dark eyes regarded Tyrion suspiciously. "I should leave you here with your fool's fire. If I took your horse, I'd have twice the chance to make it through. What would you do then, dwarf?"

"Die, most like." Tyrion stooped to get another stick.

"You don't think I'd do it?"

"You'd do it in an instant, if it meant your life. But do that and you'll never get your gold."

Bronn eyed him warily. "Make no mistake, dwarf," he said. "I fought for you, but I do not love you."

"It was your blade I needed," Tyrion said, "not your love." He dumped his armful of wood on the ground.

Bronn grinned. "You're bold as any sellsword, I'll give you that."

Tyrion squatted awkwardly on his stunted legs to build the fire. "Do you have a flint?"

Bronn slid two fingers into the pouch at his belt and tossed down a flint. Tyrion caught it in the air.

"Thank you, lowborn scum," he said. Tyrion struck the flint against his dagger, trying for a spark. Nothing.

Bronn snorted. "You have a bold tongue, little man. One day someone is like to cut it out and make you eat it."

If it ever happened, it will more likely be Cersei. Tyrion had said much and more that day at Riverrun to her and Cersei will remember them. He glanced up at the sellsword. "Did I offend you? My pardons . . . but you are scum, Bronn, make no mistake. Duty, honor, friendship, what's that to you? No, don't trouble yourself, we both know the answer. Still, you're not stupid. You helped me just because I was in rich clothes so that I would reward you. The one thing the Lannisters have never lacked for is gold. You need your gold and I have need of your sword so why not help each other." He slammed stone and steel together again, fruitlessly.

"Here," said Bronn, squatting, "I'll do it." He took the knife and flint from Tyrion's hands and struck sparks on his first try. A curl of bark began to smolder.

"Well done," Tyrion said. "Scum you may be, but you're undeniably useful, and with a sword in your hand you're almost as good as my brother Jaime. What do you want, Bronn? Gold? Land? Women? Keep me alive, and you'll have it."

Bronn blew gently on the fire, and the flames leapt up higher. "And if you die?"

"Why then, I'll have one mourner whose grief is sincere," Tyrion said, grinning. "The gold ends when I do."

The fire was blazing up nicely. Bronn stood, tucked the flint back into his pouch, and tossed Tyrion his dagger. "Fair enough," he said. "My sword's yours, then . . . but don't go looking for me to bend the knee and m'lord you every time you take a shit. I'm not your toady nor your friend."

"Though I would treasure your friendship, I'm mainly interested in your facility with murder." Tyrion said. "If the day ever comes when you're tempted to sell me out, remember this, whatever their price I'll beat it. I like living. And now, do you think you could do something about finding us some supper?"

"Take care of the horses," Bronn said, unsheathing the long dirk he wore at his hip. He strode into the trees.

An hour later the horses had been rubbed down and fed, the fire was crackling away merrily, and a haunch of a young goat was turning above the flames, spitting and hissing. "All we lack now is some good wine to wash down our kid," Tyrion said.

"That, a woman, and another dozen swords," Bronn said. He sat cross-legged beside the fire, honing the edge of his longsword with an oilstone. There was something strangely reassuring about the rasping sound it made when he drew it down the steel. "It will be full dark soon," the sellsword pointed out. "I'll take first watch . . . for all the good it will do us. It might be kinder to let them kill us in our sleep."

Tyrion thought maybe the sellsword had a point. He should've got an escort when he left Riverrun. Robert had offered Tyrion a twenty good men from his own guards. "Take the men, imp," he had said when Tyrion refused him. "It will not be a good news to your father to hear about your death too."

Oh, there will be no better news for Lord Tywin than learning the death of his younger son. He might even be fuming about the fact that Jaime died instead of him. He will be terribly wishing that it was Tyrion who had died in Jaime's place. But Tyrion had other plans. He would return back to his father as complete as his father had sent him to Riverrun that too with only the escort Lord Tywin had given him. He had refused Robert's men and now he wondered how big a mistake was it to refuse the men.

The smell of the roasting meat made Tyrion's mouth water.

He leaned over the fire and sawed a thin slice of meat from the kid. "Ahhhh," he sighed happily as he chewed. Grease ran down his chin. "A bit tougher than I'd like, and in want of spicing, but I'll not complain too loudly. I am content with it."

Bronn yanked out his dirk and pulled the meat from the fire. He began to carve thick chunks of charred meat off the bone as Tyrion hollowed out two heels of stale bread to serve as trenchers. "If we do reach Casterly Rock, what will you do then?" the sellsword asked as he cut.

"Oh, a whore and a featherbed and a flagon of wine, for a start." Tyrion held out his trencher, and Bronn filled it with meat. "And then I'll meet my lord father. I have some important things to do with him."

By the time their bellies were full, the stars had come out and a halfmoon was rising over the mountains. Tyrion spread his bearskin cloak on the ground and stretched out with his saddle for a pillow. "Our friends are taking their sweet time."

"If I were them, I'd fear a trap," Bronn said. "Why else would we be so open, if not to lure them in?"

Tyrion chuckled. "Then we ought to sing and send them fleeing in terror." He began to whistle a tune.

"You're mad, dwarf," Bronn said as he cleaned the grease out from under his nails with his dirk.

"Where's your love of music, Bronn?"

"If it was music you wanted, you should have gotten yourself a singer to guard you."

Tyrion grinned. "That would have been amusing." He resumed his whistling. "Do you know this song?" he asked.

"You hear it here and there, in inns and whorehouses."

"Myrish. 'The Seasons of My Love.' Sweet and sad, if you understand the words. The first girl I ever bedded used to sing it, and I've never been able to put it out of my head." Tyrion gazed up at the sky. It was a clear cold night and the stars shone down upon the mountains as bright and merciless as truth. "I met her on a night like this," he heard himself saying. "Jaime and I were riding back from Lannisport when we heard a scream, and she came running out into the road with two men dogging her heels, shouting threats. My brother unsheathed his sword and went after them, while I dismounted to protect the girl. She was scarcely a year older than I was, dark-haired, slender, with a face that would break your heart. It certainly broke mine. Lowborn, half-starved, unwashed . . . yet lovely. They'd torn the rags she was wearing half off her back, so I wrapped her in my cloak while Jaime chased the men into the woods. By the time he came trotting back, I'd gotten a name out of her, and a story. She was a crofter's child, orphaned when her father died of fever, on her way to . . . well, nowhere, really.

"Jaime was all in a lather to hunt down the men. It was not often outlaws dared prey on travelers so near to Casterly Rock, and he took it as an insult. The girl was too frightened to send off by herself, though, so I offered to take her to the closest inn and feed her while my brother rode back to the Rock for help.

"She was hungrier than I would have believed. We finished two whole chickens and part of a third, and drank a flagon of wine, talking. I was only thirteen, and the wine went to my head, I fear. The next thing I knew, I was sharing her bed. If she was shy, I was shyer. I'll never know where I found the courage. When I broke her maidenhead, she wept, but afterward she kissed me and sang her little song, and by morning I was in love."

"You?" Bronn's voice was amused.

"Absurd, isn't it?" Tyrion began to whistle the song again. "I married her," he finally admitted.

"A Lannister of Casterly Rock wed to a crofter's daughter," Bronn said. "How did you manage that?"

"Oh, you'd be astonished at what a boy can make of a few lies, fifty pieces of silver, and a drunken septon. I dared not bring my bride home to Casterly Rock, so I set her up in a cottage of her own, and for a fortnight we played at being man and wife. And then the septon sobered and confessed all to my lord father." Tyrion was surprised at how desolate it made him feel to say it, even after all these years. Perhaps he was just tired. "That was the end of my marriage." He sat up and stared at the dying fire, blinking at the light.

"He sent the girl away?"

"He did better than that," Tyrion said. "First he made my brother tell me the truth. The girl was a whore, you see. Jaime arranged the whole affair, the road, the outlaws, all of it. He thought it was time I had a woman. He paid double for a maiden, knowing it would be my first time.

"After Jaime had made his confession, to drive home the lesson, Lord Tywin brought my wife in and gave her to his guards. They paid her fair enough. A silver for each man, how many whores command that high a price? He sat me down in the corner of the barracks and made me watch, and at the end she had so many silvers the coins were slipping through her fingers and rolling on the floor, she . . . " The smoke was stinging his eyes. Tyrion cleared his throat and turned away from the fire, to gaze out into darkness. "Lord Tywin had me go last," he said in a quiet voice. "And he gave me a gold coin to pay her, because I was a Lannister, and worth more."

After a time he heard the noise again, the rasp of steel on stone as Bronn sharpened his sword. "Thirteen or thirty or three, I would have killed the man who did that to me."

Tyrion swung around to face him. "You may get that chance one day. Remember what I told you. A Lannister always pays his debts." He yawned. "I think I will try and sleep. Wake me if we're about to die."

He rolled himself up in the bearskin and shut his eyes. The ground was stony and cold, but after a time Tyrion Lannister did sleep. As he slept he dreamed of a better place, a snug little cottage by the sunset sea.

* * *

 _ **Author's Notes: So Tyrion has met with Broon and is going to meet his father. How will Tywin react? Any thoughts or criticisms leave it in the reviews. Thank you for reading my story.**_


	31. Chapter 31

_**Rhaegar**_

Balerion brought them to the port of King's Landing at first light. Only when Bezzaro finished his prayer did the king stepped down from the war galley. There was already a good party of escort waiting for him. Aegon was at their head, dressed in black and grey, the colors of both his parents. He had not thought to see his son here. Aegon was always aware of his duty and what was needed of him. And he was needed at the Red Keep in his absence. If he was here then he must have reasons to be here.

The men all went to one knee when he stepped onto the ground and the sight was almost pleasing. When people fear you it is the most intoxicating sensation a man can possess. He had learned that long ago. A move of his fingers had them all on their feet again.

"Aegon," Rhaegar said walking to his son. He pulled him in for a tight embrace. He had missed his son. He still remembered the day he had put him over his dragon for the first time. He missed the old times.

"Father," Aegon greeted him back with a melancholic smile. The boy had got his brooding, melancholic face from him.

"My prince," Bezzaro followed him.

Aegon greeted him with a simple word. His son never liked the red priest much. He shouted some orders to prepare for their ride back to the Red Keep on Aegon's Hill. A boy brought two horses for him and Bezzaro. Rhaegar mounted his ride and the column fell in behind him after his kingsguard. Aegon rode to his left while Bezzaro stayed in his right flanked by the three remaining Kingsguard.

They rode from the port at once accompanied by a dozen citywatch guards in their gold cloaks and gold enameled halfhelms. As they passed beneath the river gate, his son came beside him. Looking at him Rhaegar could say that something was troubling him. "Father," he called, "What happened in Braavos?"

Rhaegar grew hesitant. "Its nothing to worry about," he managed himself to say. "Someone has paid to see me dead. But no worries, the killer lays dead in the gutter."

"But who was that?" Aegon asked. "Who wants you dead? You should've tried to catch him alive. We could've got the answer from him."

That is if I had managed to catch him in the first place. The bastard had slipped through his hands, escaping by using the canals. Rhaegar prayed to the gods to keep him alive just so he could take his filthy life away from him.

"You don't have to worry over it. It would've been either one of Stark's friend." But he knew that was not the truth. Robert would never send an assassin to do the work for him. Jon Arryn, too honorable to do it. He would put his money on Tywin Lannister. When he heard of Viserys' death Rhaegar had been so sure that it was not the work of Tywin but now with the thing happened to him he doubted no one more. But the lion was a cunning one. Tywin wouldn't have allowed Jaime to accompany if he had already planned this.

"You don't have to trouble over it son. I'm planning to deal with them soon." Rhaegar put his heels into his horse and trotted away, leaving the gold cloaks to follow as best they could.

He had intended to take the measure of the city when he was in Braavos. Rhaegar Targaryen was not pleased by much of what he saw. The streets of King's Landing had always been teeming and raucous and noisy, but now they reeked of danger in a way that he did not recall from past visits. The streets were filled with poor fellows eying them covetously with pale eyes and hollow cheeks. Watchmen were much in evidence, moving in pairs through the alleys in their gold cloaks and shirts of black ringmail, iron cudgels never far from their hands. The markets were crowded with ragged men selling their household goods for any price they could get… and conspicuously empty of farmers selling food. What little produce he did see was three times as costly as it had been a year ago. One peddler was hawking rats roasted on a skewer. "Fresh rats," he cried loudly, "fresh rats." Doubtless fresh rats were to be preferred to old stale rotten rats. The frightening thing was, the rats looked more appetizing than most of what the butchers were selling. On the Street of Flour, Rhaegar saw guards at every other shop door. When times grew lean, even bakers found sellswords cheaper than bread, he reflected.

"There is no food coming in, is there?" he said to Aegon.

"Little enough," his son admitted. "I've asked Lord Mace Tyrell to send a raven to Highgarden and bring in more food. But without the riverlands it is twice as hard to find food for the entire city."

"And what have you done about keeping the peace?" Rhaegar asked as he saw a naked corpse in the gutter being torn apart by some dogs.

"I've been taking steps to restore the king's peace," Aegon assured him. "I've tripled the size of the City Watch and put it under the command of Ser Jacelyn Bywater, and Daenerys has put a thousand craftsmen to work on our defenses. We lost Vhagar and Meraxes in a storm but the new Master of Ships, Aurane Waters has started to build others to replace them. The stonemasons are strengthening the walls, carpenters are building scorpions and catapults by the hundred, fletchers are making arrows, the smiths are forging blades, and our dragons stay strong."

Rhaegar shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. He was pleased that his son had not been idle. They might need all of them so soon. "I have not finalised the deal with the Iron Bank though. We might want to make sure to every coin from the royal coffers wisely."

"We might want to talk to Littlefinger about that. But I don't like him, father."

"You don't have to like the man," Rhaegar said. "You just have to like his work. He is a skilled man. Ask him to raise the taxes by three times than the old. It should put some gold in our coffers."

Aegon looked at him wide-eyed and surprised. "It's cruel. The people can't manage to pay it." It's Cruel, yes, but Clever. Clever and cruel. They had an ample amount of gold in the royal coffers but restoring the city and strengthening it will take more coin. The increasing of taxes would fill the royal coffers again.

"I never said to increase it today," Rhaegar told him. "Get the food from the Tyrells and feed them. When they sing songs about you for your generosity raise the taxes. They'll have to pay because they can't eat gold."

"And what about Varys?" Aegon asked. "You said that you'll take care of him once you came back."

Rhaegar sighed. "Varys has his flaws," he admitted. "But he has proven useful in more than one occasion. Especially in the thing with the Outlaw, Eddard Stark. Him and Baelish. I said I'll change them in due time and I shall. Now, all we have to worry about is your marriage."

"Speaking of marriage," Aegon started, "there is something you need to know."

"What is it?"

"The Martells are here," Aegon said. "With Prince Oberyn Martell."

Oberyn... He is here. Rhaegar has not spoken with Oberyn ever since Harrenhal. The Red Viper of Dorne had stayed away from him after that. He wondered if Elia had something to do with it. Now he has seen it fit to face him after seventeen years. He wondered what kind of troubles Oberyn is going to bring. It was not a secret that Oberyn blamed him for Elia and their children's death. Of all the people he had known, Oberyn was the most dangerous. No one knows when the viper strikes and no one knows why the viper strikes.

"When did he arrived?" Rhaegar asked his son.

"A moon ago."

"And Doran Martell?"

"Prince Doran never came. His health is not so good as to make the journey," Aegon answered.

That's not good. If someone can talk some sense into Oberyn Martell it was Doran.

"Where is Lyanna?"

Aegon looked back at him hesitantly. "In the Godswood," he said at last. "I don't know what is wrong with her. She has been like this ever since you left for Braavos. I have never seen her like that."

He might want to talk to her too. Gods be damned. He had thought that getting back home would help him to get away from the things happened in Braavos. He would have gladly chosen to stay in Braavos if it had known that he had so much waiting for him here.

They took the short route to Aegon's Hill and soon came to the Red Keep. As he had predicted Oberyn was waiting for him in the yard, dressed in flowing robes of striped orange, yellow, and scarlet.

The others in the yard knelt at once when Rhaegar dismounted but Oberyn never did. He just stood there on the ground as if he owned it.

"Prince Oberyn," Rhaegar greeted him.

"Your Grace," Oberyn said tilting his head lightly in a nod.

"I'm pleased to know that you came to welcome me," Rhaegar said.

"The pleasure was mine," Oberyn said, dark eyes shining. "I should welcome the King and his trusted advisor." He eyed Bezzaro with black eyes darkening with rage.

Rhaegar was not ready for the Red Viper's plays right now. "I'm sorry, Prince Oberyn. The long journey has left me exhausted," Rhaegar told him as politely as he could. "So if you'll excuse me, we'll talk again after."

"Why, we shall have the talk on the way," Oberyn said. "I shall not take much of your time."

After sending Aegon away to Lyanna, Rhaegar joined Prince Oberyn and walked with him to the castle. Bezzaro followed him with the kingsguard trailing behind. There was a certain wickedness in Oberyn's smirk that Rhaegar hated. "Are you finding King's Landing to you like, Prince Oberyn?"

"Oh, I like it," The Red Viper said with a chuckle. "It is certainly more kind to me than it was to another Martell once.

"I am glad that you find it kind to you," Rhaegar held his head high. He would not give into the viper's pushing. "Most don't."

"And that is why I've come here. To make it more hospitable."

Will he ever grow tired of this talk? He knew the answer to it. This is the Red Viper of Dorne. He knows how to use his tongue as well as he knows how to use his fangs.

"Seems like you've got a new advisor now," Oberyn said cocking his head at Bezzaro. "As a replacement to Arthur Dayne?"

"Take it what you will."

"Your father had an advisor as well," Oberyn said, his voice growing as dark as his eyes. "One who burns people."

"Do you take me for my father?" Rhaegar asked him coldly. "If I was my father you would have lost your tongue by now. You should be glad that I'm not my father. I'm a dragon but not my father."

By way of answer Prince Oberyn gave a smirk, and said, "When the Young Dragon conquered Dorne so long ago, he left the Lord of Highgarden to rule us after the Submission of Sunspear. This Tyrell moved with his tail from keep to keep, chasing rebels and making certain that our knees stayed bent. He would arrive in force, take a castle for his own, stay a moon's turn, and ride on to the next castle. It was his custom to turn the lords out of their own chambers and take their beds for himself. One night he found himself beneath a heavy velvet canopy. A sash hung down near the pillows, should he wish to summon a wench. He had a taste for Dornish women, this Lord Tyrell, and who can blame him? So he pulled upon the sash, and when he did the canopy above him split open, and a hundred red scorpions fell down upon his head. His death lit a fire that soon swept across Dorne, undoing all the Young Dragon's victories in a fortnight. The kneeling men stood up, and we were free again."

"Is that a threat?" asked Rhaegar. "You would need more than a hundred scorpions to kill a dragon."

"If I find the need to threat you, I'll do it to your face."

"We don't have any problem between us, Oberyn," Rhaegar tried to reason. "What happened to Elia was an injustice. I have brought my father low for it. Make no mistake I have not forgotten her no more than I forget our children."

"Oh, do you?" The prince's eyes were dark with amusement. "Tell me, what you have not forgotten, Elia and your children's deaths or the man who burned them?"

"You see, Your Grace," Oberyn said, softly. "I have found a certain guard who saw you bring your father low. He sings songs of your great victory that day and I've heard his songs and like you, I have not forgotten those songs as well."

With that the Red Viper never even waited for a reply from him and all he saw was the man walking away from him danger dripping from his every step.


	32. Chapter 32

_**Andrew**_

Joy was dressed in a forest green gown and had a heavy cloak around her shoulders. Looking at her he could say that she was going out.

"Where are you going?" Andrew asked as she went to fix a brooch to pin her cloak.

"Outside," Joy said. "I need to go get some things."

Andrew sat up on the bed. "Give me some time," he told her. "I'll come with you."

He had stayed in the bed for too long. Staying here won't do any good for him. He needed to go out and see the world with his own eyes. He needed to walk, needed to find another way to get his justice. The pain was still there in his injured leg but Andrew thought he could manage to walk.

"Help me up," he said, struggling with the bedclothes. "It's time I saw the outside world, and past time I let myself be seen again." He thought about Illola and the girls, they would be worried for me right now, especially Illola. Illola had known where he had left that day when the king of Westeros came to Braavos. With all the talks surrounding him and that day she would be worried sick for him.

Joy rushed to him at once but not to help him. "No," she said at once, easing him back to lie on the bed. "Just because you could walk you can't come that long way with me."

She was sweet but can be stubborn when she wanted. He has never known someone so stubborn as her. There were times where he wondered whether someone could be more stubborn than her. "But I can't just sit here on this bed for all day. I need some fresh air."

"No," She said again. "You can't walk the distance. You'll not make it."

"I won't know that until I try." Andrew could see that she was still not convinced.

"It is so dangerous. They are still searching for you."

"They can go to hell," Andrew said. "I can't just stay here on this bed everyday. I need to know that I can still use my legs. I need to walk." In truth he needed more than that. He needed a plan and another chance to kill Rhaegar. He could learn something about him from the mouth of a passing sailer or a drunken sellsword. But saying that to Joy will make sure that he never stepped away from the bed.

His words made Joy to think about it if not his thoughts. Joy was a healer and she knew that he would want to walk sooner rather than later. He was glad that he told her about it.

"Alright," she gave in at last. "But when we're outside you do as I ask you to do. You follow me."

Andrew chuckled. "As you say, my lady." He got that pretty glare he always got when he called her that. He slid from the bed to the floor. His legs felt strong beneath him, though not as strong as they had been once. He would get his strength back though, Joy said that much. He was healing faster and his health improved quickly. Once he was back to normal he would go for Rhaegar again. He had missed Rhaegar once, missed but not lost. Joy grasped his arm to help him find his footing. She left him once when he had no troubles standing without the support.

She came back with his clothes, a bundle of white and brown.

"Here," she said as she gave the clothes to him. "I've washed and mend your clothes. I have no clothes for men other than my father's but rich clothes will attract too many eyes."

She had done a good job at washing and mending his clothes. His white shirt and jacket had been covered in blood that day. Though most of the blood would have been washed away when he had jumped into the canal. It would've been still a hard thing to return the garments to its original color but Joy had somehow managed to get it back. She was pretty good at sewing too. He could see that by how fine she had managed to stitch to make the cloth back to its shape.

It took both of them to clothe him. Joy was careful with his wounds as she had no mind to make it worse. It was the arrows which had made the worst of the wounds. The swords never managed to get him other than the golden sword of Joy's cousin. Even it was a small cut near his eyebrow and the others were all scrapes which will not even leave a scar.

Joy brought a cloak to him as he was lacing his boots. "Wear this," she said handing it to him. "It was my father's. It would serve to keep your face hidden."

The cloak was a hooded one, roughspun with lambswool and so dark that it would not be visible in the night. Only when she was okay with his look did she finally brought him out.

Outside the day was pleasantly warm for Braavos. Andrew took off his cloak. He was getting outside for the first time in what felt like years and he wanted to feel the cool air against his face, the warmth of the sun on his skin.

Joy immediately found it as complaint.

"A hooded man on a pleasant day will attract unwanted attention as well," Andrew tried to reason and his reasoning worked. She agreed to it on a condition that he cloak himself if they were to come upon any guards.

They walked through the street away from the sinking point of land where the tops of half-drowned buildings thrust themselves above the water. There were so many big buildings all together in one place. He had seen a good number of great castles in Westeros, Winterfell was definitely large, Storm's End larger and Starfall was the tallest castle he had ever seen. All of them had been at different places. Winterfell in the North, Storm's End in the Stormlands and Starfall in Dorne, but Braavos seemed to boast a score of temples and towers and palaces that were as large if not larger all in the same place.

When they reached the main canal, they took the way from the north of the docks and down the stone pathway along a great canal, a broad green waterway that ran straight into the heart of the city through which Andrew had escaped from death. The mouths of lesser canals opened to either side, and others still smaller off of those. A fancy floating house with lanterns of colored glass, covered with velvet drapes was making its way along the main canal. A brazen figurehead in the likeness of a snake was placed on one end.

They cut through a massive grey stone roadway supported by three tiers of mighty arches marching away south into the haze. The sweetwater river ran quietly, bringing fresh water from the mainland, across the mudflats and the briny shallows. Good sweet water for the fountains. He could see The Isle of the Gods from here. Six bridges down, on the right bank the Temple of the Moonsingers stood, a mighty mass of snow-white marble topped by a huge silvered dome whose milk glass windows showed all the phases of the moon. A pair of marble maidens flanked its gates, supporting a crescent-shaped lintel.

Beyond it stood the temple of the Lord of Light, a red stone edifice as stern as any fortress. Atop its great square tower a fire blazed in an iron brazier twenty feet across, whilst smaller fires flanked its brazen doors. The red priests loved their fires. One could always see fires in the temple of R'hllor.

The Holy Refuge came next, a huge brick structure festooned with lichen. More shrines loomed up to either side of the canal.

The road by the Long Canal took them beneath the green copper domes of the Palace of Truth and the tall square towers of the Prestayns and Antaryons and passed through the immense grey arches of the sweetwater river to the district known as Silty Town, where the buildings were smaller and less grand. The canal was choked with serpent boats and barges, but the road was almost free for them.

Joy took him first to the market in the Purple Harbor, it was swarming with sailors and shopkeepers and innkeppers and drunkards. Herring sellers and cod wives, oystermen, clam diggers, stewards, cooks, smallwives, and sailors off the galleys, all haggling loudly with one another as they inspected the things they wanted, some inspected fish, some flour, others bread and wine and some were interested in the courtesans. There were a couple of guards from the city watch, standing near a whorehouse with a cup of wine in one hand and a woman on the other. They were so occupied with their wine and women that they never even spared a look at him.

The harbor was always a busy place. He saw sailors on the prowl for whores, and whores on the prowl for sailors. A pair of bravos passed in rumpled finery, leaning on each other as they staggered drunkenly past the docks, their blades rattling at their sides. A red priest swept past, his scarlet and crimson robes snapping in the wind.

Joy went on about to buy all the things she needed and Andrew followed her closely. As she moved from one shop to another she always went on to give some coins to the beggars nearby. Once she bought some sweets and gave it to the children running around. Looking at her with the children around her, Andrew remembered the day he visited the smallfolk in the north near to Winterfell with his mother. He had been a little child himself, about five years old, younger than all the children around Joy. That was the first time he had ridden out with his mother to meet the people of the north. The people had looked at them and received them happily. Everyone had smiles for them and they were so happy to see his mother. They even knew her name. "Queen Ashara" they had called her as she passed by.

They visited all the people. His mother bought apples and cakes for the children. They had surrounded her like the children who were surrounding Joy now and all of them had been so happy and had big smiles in their faces. They had dined in an inn there, where a woman with rose colored hair had given him strawberries. The memory put a smile on his face. He never knew how he remembered all of them but looking at Joy smiling with the children, he could almost see his mother smiling with the children in Winter Town.

Joy then went to a baker and got some freshly baked bread and a bag of raw flour. It was well past midday when she bought all the things. They munched on bread on their way back home. Andrew insisted they take the long route because it felt good to walk after the long bedrest. Joy obliged without any complaint and they took the long route back home. He had a mind to go see Illola and the girls but he was already tired.

The sun was already down when they reached Joy's building. The mists of evening had begun to rise, sending grey fingers up the walls of the buildings that lined the old canal. He could see three men leaning against the door of Joy's room. Two of them had lanterns with them. The fire made their faces visible amidst the fogs. Joy stopped at once when she saw them.

"Do you know them?" Andrew asked.

Joy nodded slowly. He could see that something was wrong. Andrew followed her up the steps. The one who had no lantern came up to block the way when Joy stepped up to the door.

"I came to see you," he said. He was tall and thin, dressed in rich clothes of a heavy cloak of plush brown velvet trimmed with fur and a brown leather belt ornamented with silver moons and stars.

"I never asked you to come," Joy walked past him and opened the door to enter the room. The three men followed her inside and Andrew got in after them.

"You wound me, sweet lady," the thin man said. "Just the sight of you makes my cock so hard that it aches for you."

When he saw Andrew he turned to him. "Who are you?" He turned to Joy then. "Is he your lover now? Have you fallen for that pretty face?" His companions laughed at that. "I bet he is nothing compared to me down there. And you're always welcome to see it."

With that he grabbed Joy and pressed her against the wall. She struggled in his grasp trying to get away from him but the man had his strength over her. Andrew moved forward and turned the man to him.

"Let her go, mate," he told the man. "She doesn't want you here."

"Leave us alone, whoreson. You can have her when I'm finished with her."

He made to turn to Joy but Andrew caught him by the shoulder and turned the man to him. He punched him right on the nose. A sickening crunch was heard as his closed fist connected with the man's nose. His two companions came for him. The one on his left swung the lantern at him. Andrew ducked under his arm and punched at his ribs and then brought his right hand to punch at his eye. He caught the hand of the third one, a big, bald man and punched his face again and again till he dropped down.

The companions ran away leaving the man alone with him. He covered his broken nose with his left hand and drew a dagger from the belt in his right hand.

"You'll pay for it," he muffled. "My father is Syro Irrirah, he'll make you pay for this."

Syro Irrirah. He has heard the name before. Yes, the old man Gyllaro Dynar and his story. He had seen Viserys that day and had forgotten completely about the old man. Andrew felt ashamed at that, he had made a promise to him and forgot it once he met Viserys.

Syro's son rushed at him and slashed the dagger wildly at him. Andrew caught his hand and punched his broken nose again. He caught him by his velvet robes and pushed the man out of the door. "There is a man named Gyllaro Dynar whom your father once betrayed," Andrew told him. "Ask your father to find him and right all the wrongs your father ever did to him. Do that and don't make me come looking for you. Get out of here." He pushed the man down the steps and closed the door.

Joy was sitting against the wall, looking at him with wide eyes. Andrew walked to her. "Are you alright?"

The girl nodded. There was a bruise on her shoulder.

"You would want to look at that," Andrew pointed to her bruise. He helped her to her bed and brought the paste she asked for from her place. Joy got the paste from him. She tried to apply the cream on her bruise but it was hard for her to reach it.

"Here," Andrew offered. "Let me."

He got the paste from her and dipped a finger into the jar and got some of the cream on the tip of his finger. He applied the paste on the bruise and rubbed it for sometime.

"Why did you punch him?" Joy asked as he applied some more of the paste on her bruise. "You didn't have to do that."

Andrew looked down at her. "He was hurting you. What am I supposed to do? Stand and watch."

Joy was unimpressed. "Why do you always have to punch someone?" she asked him. "Were you always like this? Where is your family?"

My family. "I was not always like this," he admitted after a moment of silence. Andrew felt lightheaded. His wounds throbbed painfully as the old memories came back to him. He eased himself down on the bed and sat beside her. "I had a family once. A small one but a happy one. The happiest one could ever hope to have."

"Where are they?" Her voice sounded far off, faint.

He floated in memory. "Someone ripped it off away from me. My father. My mother. My uncles. All dead in the hands of a madman. A madman who burned my family to ashes, a madman who filled my home with blood, a madman who pushed me to some unknown gutter. We were there for the feast prepared for him. I saw him kill innocent people just because he found it as a rightful act, I saw my father and uncle rushing off to meet death. I heard something that no son should hear about his mother. I saw things that no child should see, heard things that no child should hear."

"Who are you?" Joy asked. "Who did this to you?"

He never knew why he said that but he did. "I'm Andrew Stark, son of King Eddard Stark and Queen Ashara Dayne."

Joy looked at him as if she had seen a ghost. "You're the Born King." Her voice was filled with surprise.

"Don't call me that," he said at once. "It was that name which got my parents killed."

"But how did you. . . Everyone thinks you to be dead."

"My mother saved me," Andrew told her. "She sacrificed herself to save me."

"So that's why you tried to kill Rhaegar Targaryen?"

"He took my family away from me. Him and his family," Andrew mumbled, voice thick with tears. "They enjoyed killing them. They drunk and danced in merry all the while I grew up without my parents. There was no one to hold my hand whilst I walked, no one to hold me tight while I was afraid, no one to comfort me while I cried. For years I cried myself to sleep hoping that everything happened was a bad dream and I'll be with my parents in the morning. None of it happened though and as I grew up I brought myself to live against all that.

"And then I saw Viserys after many years, walking before me as if he had done nothing wrong in this world. But I know what he was truly and I couldn't let him get away. He killed my mother and the gods only know whatever tortured he inflicted upon her. So I started with him. I broke his mouth, his nose his bloody face and hung him from the brothel."

"Andrew," Joy said, "Your mother was not killed by the Targaryens. She threw herself into the sea from atop a cliff."

"No she wouldn't," Andrew said uncertainly. He had never known a woman stronger than his mother. As much as she was kind she was equally strong. She would never bring herself to jump to her death.

The look on Joy's face said otherwise. "I'm sorry, Andrew." Joy placed her hand on his. "She jumped into the sea in grief for your father and your uncle."

"It doesn't matter," Andrew said after a moment of silence. "They killed her anyway. And I'll not stop until I get justice for them. I missed Rhaegar once but I shall not miss him again. I'll kill him and everyone who comes in my way especially the Kingsguard. When I was little I've always looked up to my uncle as if he was some sort of hero. That every Kingsguard is some sort of hero. I loved my uncle's stories about them and I loved them so much that I even wanted to join the order when I had no reason to do so. And that day I saw that they are no better than the madmen they were serving. They stood by and watched their king kill my uncle, their own brother. I'll kill all of them, no matter what."

"Is that what your mother asked you to do?" Joy asked.

A sharp quietness clung to the air. His mother had asked him to remember. And he remembered everything.

"Tell me, Andrew," said Joy. "Will your mother and father want this life for you?"

He knew the answer. It was No. Both of them would never have wanted a life like this for him. But they would still be happy that he is alive.

"You will kill anyone and everyone who comes between you and Rhaegar," Joy said. "Do that and what is the difference between you and the Targaryens? You would kill a man who doesn't even has an idea about you or what happened to you. You would kill a man just because he was in the wrong place in the wrong time? You would kill a man just because he is doing his duty."

She put her arms around him and embraced him tightly. She was warm and soft like his mother had been. "I'm so sorry for what happened to you, Andrew," Joy said. "But this is not life. There is much more to life than all this. You are not alone, you have me. I'm with you."

He never brought himself away from her. Her presence had been a welcoming one. It has been long since Andrew Stark felt something like that but in her arms he felt like he was home.

* * *

 ** _Author's Notes: So Andrew's confessions and Joy gets to know who he is. Also thanks for all the follows and favorites. You guys are cool. And a shout out to everyone who reviewed, both the users and the Guests thank you, all of you, for your support. Continue your support._**


	33. Chapter 33

_**Samwell**_

You are as hopeless as any boys I have ever trained," Ser Alliser Thorne announced when they had all assembled in the yard. "Your hands were made for manure shovels, not for swords, and if it were up to me, the lot of you would be set to herding swine. But last night I was told that Gueren is marching five new boys up the kingsroad. One or two may even be worth the price of piss. To make room for them, I have decided to pass eight of you on to the Lord Commander to do with as he will. " He called out the names one by one. "Toad. Stone Head. Aurochs. Lover. Pimple. Monkey. Ser Loon. " Last, he looked at Edd next to Sam. "And Sour Edd. "

Pyp let fly a whoop and thrust his sword into the air. Ser Alliser fixed him with a reptile stare. "They will call you men of Night's Watch now, but you are bigger fools than the Mummer's Monkey here if you believe that. You are boys still, green and stinking of summer, and when the winter comes you will die like flies." And with that, Ser Alliser Thorne took his leave of them.

The other boys gathered round the eight who had been named, laughing and cursing and offering congratulations. Halder smacked Toad on the butt with the flat of his sword and shouted, "Toad, of the Night's Watch!" Yelling that a black brother needed a horse, Pyp leapt onto Grenn's shoulders, and they tumbled to the ground, rolling and punching and hooting. Dareon dashed inside the armory and returned with a skin of sour red. As they passed the wine from hand to hand, grinning like fools, Samwell Tarly walked away from them to stand by himself beneath a bare dead tree in the corner of the yard and watched the boys play. When Edd saw him from amidst the other boys he walked to him. He offered him the skin. "A swallow of wine?"

Sam shook his head. "No thank you, Edd. "

"Are you well?" asked Edd.

"Very well, truly," He lied. He was not well truly. "I am so happy for you all. " His face quivered as he forced a smile. "You will be a Ranger someday. "

"Piss on that," Edd said. "I want to live for sometime." Before he could say more, Halder cried, "Here, you planning to drink that all yourself?" Pyp snatched the skin from his hand and danced away, laughing. While Grenn seized his arm, Pyp gave the skin a squeeze, and a thin stream of red squirted Edd in the face. Halder howled in protest at the waste of good wine. Edd sputtered and struggled. Matthar and Jeren climbed the wall and began pelting them all with snowballs.

Sam was frightened, again. They were leaving him. His friends. He remembered the day he had left Horn Hill, all the bittersweet farewells; atleast to his mother and sisters. Now it was his friends who would say the farewells to him. Once his friends say their words, they'll all have duties to attend to and no time to spend with the recruit Samwell Tarly. Some of them would be sent away, to Eastwatch or the Shadow Tower. But Sam will remain in training, with Rast and Cuger and these new boys who are coming up the kingsroad. Gods only know what they'll be like, but he can see it clear as sunset that Ser Alliser will send them against him, first chance he gets.

Looking at them happily playing with each other, Sam left the ecstatic boys to their snowball fight.

A deep restlessness was on him as he went back to his cell. He had no destination in mind. He wanted only to get away from there. He followed the way back to his cell, listening to the howling of the winds. The kingsroad would be just away from him, narrow and stony and pocked with weeds, a road of no particular promise. Yet the thought of it filled Samwell Tarly with a vast longing. Winterfell was down that road, cold and gloomy and beyond it Riverrun and King's Landing and the Eyrie and so many other places; Casterly Rock, the Isle of Faces, the red mountains of Dorne, the hundred islands of Braavos in the sea, the smoking ruins of old Valyria and most importantly, the Citadel. All the places that Sam would never see. The world was down that road . . . and he was here, away from family and now away from friends too.

Once they swore their vow, his friends would be assigned to their posts as the men of the Night's Watch. Rangers, builders, stewards, they would be assigned accordingly. Every man who wore the black walked the Wall, and every man was expected to take up steel in its defense, but the rangers were the true fighting heart of the Night's Watch. It was they who dared ride beyond the Wall, sweeping through the haunted forest and the icy mountain heights west of the Shadow Tower, fighting wildlings and giants and monstrous snow bears.

The order of builders provided the masons and carpenters to repair keeps and towers, the miners to dig tunnels and crush stone for roads and footpaths, the woodsmen to clear away new growth wherever the forest pressed too close to the Wall. Once, it was said, they had quarried immense blocks of ice from frozen lakes deep in the haunted forest, dragging them south on sledges so the Wall might be raised ever higher. Those days were centuries gone, however; now, it was all they could do to ride the Wall from Eastwatch to the Shadow Tower, watching for cracks or signs of melt and making what repairs they could.

Sam would've given anything to join them. He would be content with any post but no he would get no post. He had no hope to pass on the training under the eyes of Ser Alliser. He would stay a recruit until he was old as Maester Aemon.

Sam left straight for his cell and stayed there until nightfall. He never went to the common hall for the feast Three-finger Hobb would've made for the passing recruits. His belly showed its complaint but Sam was strong in his decision as to not cry in front of all those men. He saw the distant glow of lamplight from the Lord Commander's Tower and wondered if Lord Commander Mormont could help him in any way but he knew the answer already. The recruits were given under the command of Ser Alliser Thorne and it was his word which matters the most.

He was about to go to sleep when a knock came. Sam rubbed the tears off his eyes and opened the door. "Edd?" Sam asked, surprised to see him there.

"Come, Sam," Edd turned and walked away from him.

"Where are we going?" Sam asked.

Edd turned and looked at him over his shoulder. "To an outside stroll." He didn't wait for a reply and continued in his path. Sam scurried off behind him. Sam continued to ask him questions but Edd kept quiet all the way. Edd brought him to the rookery. Sam understood at once where he had brought him.

Maester Aemon's apartments were in a stout wooden keep below the rookery. Aged and frail, the maester shared his chambers with two of the younger stewards, who tended to his needs and helped him in his duties. The brothers joked that he had been given the two ugliest men in the Night's Watch; being blind, he was spared having to look at them. Clydas was short, bald, and chinless, with small pink eyes like a mole. Chett had a wen on his neck the size of a pigeon's egg, and a face red with boils and pimples. Perhaps that was why he always seemed so angry.

It was Chett who answered Edd's knock. "I need to speak to Maester Aemon," Edd told him.

Chett eyed him and Edd. "The maester is abed, as you should be. Come back on the morrow and maybe he'll see you."

He began to shut the door. Edd jammed it open with his boot. "I need to speak to him now. The morning will be too late."

Chett scowled. "The maester is not accustomed to being woken in the night. Do you know how old he is?"

"Old enough to treat visitors with more courtesy than you," Edd said. "Give him my pardons. I would not disturb his rest if it were not important."

"And if I refuse?"

Edd had his boot wedged solidly in the door. "I can stand here all night if I must."

The black brother made a disgusted noise and opened the door to admit them. "Wait in the library. There's wood. Start a fire. I won't have the maester catching a chill on account of you two."

Sam and Edd had the logs crackling merrily by the time Chett led in Maester Aemon. The old man was clad in his bed robe, but around his throat was the chain collar of his order. A maester did not remove it even to sleep. "The chair beside the fire would be pleasant," he said when he felt the warmth on his face. When he was settled comfortably, Chett covered his legs with a fur and went to stand by the door.

"I am sorry to have woken you, Maester," Edd said.

"You did not wake me," Maester Aemon replied. "I find I need less sleep as I grow older, and I am grown very old. I often spend half the night with ghosts, remembering times fifty years past as if they were yesterday. The mystery of a midnight visitor is a welcome persion. So tell me, Tollet, why have you come calling at this strange hour?"

"To ask that Samwell Tarly be taken from training and accepted as a brother of the Night's Watch."

Sam looked at Edd eyes wide with surprise. He never knew why Edd had brought him to the Maester but he sure as hell never thought that he had brought him to get the approval of the maester.

"This is no concern of Maester Aemon," Chett complained.

"Our Lord Commander has given the training of recruits into the hands of Ser Alliser Thorne," the maester said gently. "Only he may say when a boy is ready to swear his vow, as you surely know. Why then come to me?"

Sam had known that would be his answer. He had known that much and why wouldn't Maester Aemon know that. He thought that it was just a waste of time and was ready to get away from there but Edd was not ready to give up just yet.

"The Lord Commander listens to you," Edd told him. "And the wounded and the sick of the Night's Watch are in your charge."

"And is your friend Samwell wounded or sick?" the old Maester turned his head slowly to face Sam. How he did it without the sight, Sam never knew but the old man seemed to know his presence. "Are you wounded, Samwell?"

"He will be," Edd spoke up for him, "unless you help."

Edd told them all about him, right from Ser Alliser's training to Rast's promises. Maester Aemon listened silently, blind eyes fixed on the fire, but Chett's face darkened with each word. "Without us to keep him safe, Sam will have no chance," Edd finished. "If Ser Alliser makes him fight, it's only a matter of time before he's hurt or killed."

"The Wall is no place for the weak," Chett said looking at him, his face red with anger. "Let him train until he is ready, no matter how many years that takes. Ser Alliser shall make a man of him or kill him, as the gods will."

Sam grew afraid once again. It was not going in any way he had thought it to go. As time passed by he was losing hope more and more. But it seemed as if Edd has not given his hope.

"That's stupid," he said.

Sam took a deep breath to steady his breath. His heart was beating wildly in his chest now. He was so nervous that it made his palms sweaty.

"The Night's Watch needs all sorts of people. Why else have rangers and stewards and builders? Lord Randyll couldn't make Sam a warrior, and Ser Alliser won't either. You can't hammer tin into iron, no matter how hard you beat it, but that doesn't mean tin is useless. Why shouldn't Sam be a steward?"

Chett gave an angry scowl. "I'm a steward. You think it's easy work, fit for cowards? The order of stewards keeps the Watch alive. We hunt and farm, tend the horses, milk the cows, gather firewood, cook the meals. Who do you think makes your clothing? Who brings up supplies from the south? The stewards."

Maester Aemon was gentler. "Are you a hunter, Samwell?"

Sam's lips quivered at the mention of hunting. He had never liked hunting, never wanted to hunt. "A disgrace to House Tarly. Not fit to wear even my arms." his lord father had always said. The striding huntsman was the arms of house Tarly and Sam hated hunting. "I hate hunting," he had to admit.

"Can you plow a field?" the maester asked. "Can you drive a wagon or sail a ship? Could you butcher a cow?"

Sam could do none of the things Maester Aemon said. He couldn't even lift a tool to plow a field, he couldn't even ride properly, he was even afraid to see a chicken die. "No." He said at last.

Chett gave a nasty laugh. "I've seen what happens to soft lordlings when they're put to work. Set them to churning butter and their hands blister and bleed. Give them an axe to split logs, and they cut off their own foot."

His hopes had gone shattered with it and he could feel tears clouding his eyes but Sam would not bring himself to weep infront of them.

"I know one thing Sam could do better than anyone," Edd said at last. Sam looked at him eagerly waiting to hear what he did better than anyone.

"Yes?" Maester Aemon prompted.

Edd glanced warily at Chett, standing beside the door, his boils red and angry. "He could help you," he said quickly. "He can do sums, and he knows how to read and write. I know Chett can't read, and Clydas has weak eyes. Sam has read every book in his father's library. He'd be good with the ravens too. There's a lot he could do, besides fighting. The Night's Watch needs every man. Why kill one, to no end? Make use of him instead."

Maester Aemon closed his eyes, and for a brief moment Sam was afraid that he had gone to sleep. He was his last hope. He knew he wouldn't survive without the help of his friends. Finally Maester Aemon said, "I shall think on what you have said. And now, I believe I am ready to sleep. Chett, show our young brothers to the door."

When they came out of the Maester's chambers, Sam turned to look at Edd. "I don't know why you did it," he told him, "but thank you. I've never had a friend before."

Edd smiled at him. "We're not friends," he said. He put a hand on Sam's shoulder. "We're brothers."


	34. Chapter 34

_**Tyrion**_

Distant watchers peered down from tall red towers of Casterly Rock's gatehouse as Tyrion and his sellsword Bronn ascended through the hilly pathway which led to the looming castle atop the great rock. Casterly Rock, the seat of House Lannister and the Casterlys before them stood proud atop its hill overlooking the Summer Sea. Legend says that Casterly Rock was named for the family that ruled it in the Age of Heroes, the Casterlys, who no longer exist. His ancestor, Lann the Clever had outwitted them to get the Rock for himself. Casterly Rock itself was carved out of the great stone hill colossal rock Tyrion was climbing, beside the Sunset Sea. It is popularly believed to resemble a lion in repose at sunset. But all Tyrion could see was a stretch of some shape and a big structure facing the sea. But in the golden light of the setting sun he could admit that it almost looked like a lion. The Casterlys of antiquity had built a ringfort on the peak, and as millenia have passed its natural defenses have been expanded with walls, gates, and watchtowers. The base of the Rock contains large sea-carved caverns, made by the unyielding waves of the Summer Sea. Hundreds of mineshafts were littered in the depths of the Rock from where gold and stones has been mined for thousands of years, as well as yet untouched gold veins.

The climb itself proved hard for Tyrion. He had made the climb half a hundred times before but it felt so different as if it was his first time now with the death of his brother still hurting him. They had left Lannisport at first light after his short stay in his mother's home. Lady Joanna had been a Lannister of Lannisport before she became the Lady of the Rock. His uncle Ser Stafford Lannister brought him in and gave him and Bronn a day's rest and fresh mounts for the journey to Casterly Rock. They had left Lannisport first light and kept a fast pace. They had been climbing up the rock for almost a day now. He wondered how it would be to reach the top of the Wall. The Rock has been measured at three times the height of the Wall or the Hightower of Oldtown. Though it was still not so high as the Wall it still made a hard time for him to reach the top.

Tyrion could see the torches lit up on The Lion's Mouth. The Lion's Mouth was the main entrance to Casterly Rock, an enormous natural cavern reaching two hundred feet high. Its steps were wide enough for twenty riders to ride abreast. The port beneath it had docks, wharves, and shipyards and it is accessible by longships and cogs. Torches were burning, placed on the iron sconces set up on the wall above every step. Tyrion made the ascend carefully. He had no idea to rush and fall down to his death.

The moon was high up in the sky when they reached the castle. Casterly Rock was a huge settlement. It was almost two leagues long from west to east, and contains of tunnels, dungeons, storerooms, barracks, halls, stables, stairways, courtyards, balconies, and gardens. In the bowels of the Rock were rooms where caged lions were once kept, and cells for the worst prisoners.

The opening to the castle was flanked by two watchtowers with their base shaped in the form of lions, manned by pikemen and archers. It was so quiet and different from the time he had last seen it before he left for Riverrun. A few men could be seen and the guards at their posts were all the others he could see. Casterly Rock was in deep mourning for his brother. Tyrion wondered if they will ever mourn for him when he dies.

A party of Lannister guardsmen in red cloaks and lion crested helms came forward to meet him and Bronn as they entered through the gate. The captain of guards led them. Tyrion walked up to greet him. "Vylarr."

Vylarr looked down at him with his helmet in the crook of his arm. "My lord, Tyrion," he said in astonishment. "We all feared you dead since you took a long time to return back, or lost . . . " He looked at Bronn beside him uncertainly. "This . . . companion of yours . . . "

"A friend of mine," Tyrion said. "Where will I find my lord father?"

"In his solar."

That should do. But Tyrion wanted to go see his brother first. "My brother?" he asked.

Vylarr grew visibly troubled at that. "My lord, I thought . . ."

"I know what happened, Vylarr," Tyrion said annoyed. "Where is he now?"

Vylarr turned to look back at the men and then faced him. "Your father ordered us to rest him in the Hall of Heroes."

So he has not even waited for me to come back and see my brother for the last time. Tyrion left them and made to walk to the castle. Vylarr stopped Bronn when the sellsword tried to follow him. "He is with me," Tyrion said and the captain of guards stood aside at once.

He got into the castle and walked straight for the Hall of Heroes. It was in the Hall of Heroes where the Lannisters and their close kin who died valiantly were interred. The Hall was in the lower levels of the Rock. Tyrion could hear thunder beneath him, where the sea came in to smash against the land. He made it quick to the Hall of Heroes with Bronn.

"Is this where they bury your family," Bronn smirked looking at the entrance. "It is so dark that someone else will die while trying to bring the dead ones here."

Tyrion eyed him coolly. "It is where the Lannisters rest for ages after their deaths."

The sellsword grinned again. "Well, when you die don't expect me to bring you here."

Tyrion entered the hall alone with a torch in his arm. The Hall of Heroes was a dark place as it was one of the Rock's lower levels. Thousands of tombs crowded the place and that is only as far as Tyrion could see in the light within the place. He knew that there were others and more deeper levels to it. There were armors displayed along the wall of the hall. Armors, gilded and gone rust, the armors of the Lannisters of the old. His brother was the one near to the entrance. He stayed there sometime in silence letting all the feelings and worries wash over him. When he was finished and came out from the Hall, a certain courage took hold of him. Bronn was leaning against the wall and picking the dirt out from his nails with his dagger.

"It is done?" the sellsword raising his eyebrow.

"It is," Tyrion said.

He then took the stairs to the upper levels of Casterly Rock where the Lord of Casterly Rock had his chambers and solar. A pair of house guards in crimson cloaks and lion-crested helms stood guard at his father's solar, on either side of the door. "My father?" Tyrion asked them.

"Inside, my lord."

Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West, was in his middle fifties, yet hard as a man of twenty. Even seated, he was tall, with long legs, broad shoulders, a flat stomach. His thin arms were corded with muscle. When his once-thick golden hair had begun to recede, he had commanded his barber to make his hair cropped short; Lord Tywin did not believe in half measures. He razored his lip and chin as well, but kept his beard cropped short, a short stubble of wiry golden hair that covered most of his cheeks from ear to jaw. His eyes were a pale green, flecked with gold. A fool more foolish than most had once jested that even Lord Tywin's shit was flecked with gold. Some said the man was still alive, deep in the bowels of Casterly Rock.

Ser Kevan Lannister, his father's only surviving brother, was sharing a flagon of ale with Lord Tywin when Tyrion entered his father's solar. His uncle was portly and balding, with a close-cropped yellow beard that followed the line of his massive jaw. Ser Kevan saw him first. "Tyrion," he said in surprise.

"Uncle," Tyrion said, bowing. "And my lord father. What a pleasure to find you here." Lord Tywin did not stir from his chair, but he did give his dwarf son a long, searching look. If he was mourning he did not show it a bit. "I see that the rumors of your demise were unfounded."

"Sorry to disappoint you, Father," Tyrion said. "No need to leap up and embrace me, I wouldn't want you to strain yourself." He crossed the room to their table, acutely conscious of the way his stunted legs made him waddle with every step. Whenever his father's eyes were on him, he became uncomfortably aware of all his deformities and shortcomings. "It was in fact a hard road for me but I survived with the help of my companion here," he pointed to Bronn as he climbed into a chair and helped himself to a cup of his father's ale. "Though I'm glad to know that you were worried for me."

"The Honor of our house was at stake," Lord Tywin said. "No one shall shed the Lannister blood with impunity."

"Hear Me Roar," Tyrion said, grinning. The Lannister words. "Truth be told, none of my blood was actually shed, although it was a close thing once or twice. Morrec and Jyck were killed."

"I suppose you will be wanting some new men."

"Don't trouble yourself, Father, I've acquired my own." He tried a swallow of the ale. It was very fine ale, in truth.

"Who might you be?" Lord Tywin asked Bronn beside him, cool as snow.

"Father, this is Bronn," Tyrion said to his father. "He accompanied me here." To Bronn he said, "May I present my lord father, Tywin son of Tytos of House Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West, Shield of Lannisport."

Lord Tywin looked up from what he was doing. "You shall have all my son promised you, and more," Lord Tywin told him. He looked back to his brother and gave a parchment to him. "Kevan please take our. . . honored guest with you. Give him meat and mead of our table."

Tyrion looked at the letter his uncle had in his hand. Ser Kevan never gave up anything in his face and kept the letter secure. Tyrion gave a nod to Bronn and the sellsword followed his uncle out of the room.

"So I see that you've not forgotten the Lannister blood shed in Braavos too?" Tyrion asked.

Lord Tywin ignored the sally. If he felt anything he never showed it. "So what are they saying about it?"

"They have agreed to wait up." Tyrion told his father. "But I see that you're not waiting for anyone?"

"Did you come here just to make your lame japes? I have important letters to finish."

"Important letters like the one you gave to Uncle Kevan. To be sure."

"Some battles are won with swords and spears, others with quills and ravens. Spare me these coy reproaches, Tyrion. He steepled his fingers under his chin. "Say what you want and take yourself back to your chambers to get some rest."

"What do I want, you ask? I'll tell you what I want. I want what is mine by rights. I want Casterly Rock."

His father's mouth grew hard. "Your brother's birthright?"

"The knights of the Kingsguard are forbidden to marry, to father children, and to hold land, you know that as well as I. And Jaime can't rule Casterly Rock from the Hall of Heroes now, can he? It's past time. I want you to stand up before the realm and proclaim that I am your son and your lawful heir."

Lord Tywin's eyes were a pale green flecked with gold, as luminous as they were merciless. "Casterly Rock," he declared in a flat cold dead tone. And then, "Never."

The word hung between them, huge, sharp, poisoned. I knew the answer before I asked, Tyrion said. Nineteen years since Jaime joined the Kingsguard, and I never once raised the issue. I must have known. I must always have known. "Why?" he made himself ask, though he knew he would rue the question.

"You ask that? You, who killed your mother to come into the world? You are an ill-made, devious, disobedient, spiteful little creature full of envy, lust, and low cunning. Men's laws give you the right to bear my name and display my colors, since I cannot prove that you are not mine. To teach me humility, the gods have condemned me to watch you waddle about wearing that proud lion that was my father's sigil and his father's before him. But neither gods nor men shall ever compel me to let you turn Casterly Rock into your whorehouse."

"My whorehouse?"

"Yes," his father said. "Even without Jaime, I still have two grandsons to take up my line. And my granddaughter, I will choose Argella over you to take my place anytime."

Lord Tywin rose abruptly, to tower over his dwarf son. "Go back to your room, Tyrion, and speak to me no more of your rights to Casterly Rock. You shall have your reward for your duty to me, but it shall be one I deem appropriate to your service and station. You'll leave for King's Landing to attend the Prince's marriage in my stead. And you will not bring shame onto House Lannister there. You are done with whores. You'll not bring your whores to King's Landing."


	35. Chapter 35

_**Andrew**_

There was no sun outside when they came out of their little room, only a wall of shifting grey fog. The air had grown chill and Joy cursed her lady's finery, a red silk gown with ornate embroidery over the bodice, the line of the collar and the cuff around her dainty wrist. The gown was so fine and it fitted Joy perfectly. She was so beautiful in it but the cloth did nothing to keep her warm from the cold.

"I'm cold," Joy said as they climbed down the steps from their room on the top.

Andrew knew that the gown will not save her from the cold but he had thought for a better weather. Unfortunately the cold had risen that day. He moved over to Joy and took off his jacket. "Here, wear it," he said and draped the jacket over her shoulders. Joy held the jacket tighter around her and looked up at him. Her cheeks were already flushed pink in the cold and it only made her more beautiful in his eyes. Her glossy golden hair, so thick and wavy, caught the light from the lantern and shone like beaten gold.

"Aren't you cold?" Joy asked him, huddling beneath his jacket.

Andrew took her hand and walked to the canal where the boat he had got for them was chained. "I've been in conditions worse than this," he said. Her hand was warm and soft and he liked holding it.

"Is Winterfell colder than Braavos?" Joy asked brushing closer against him.

Andrew chuckled lightly and looked down at her. "Winterfell is hot, as hot as any castle in the south. There are pipes in the walls through which hot water is passed all throughout the castle. I've barely seen my mother using furs to keep her warm when she is in the castle. But the north is cold. The lands are cold and hard but they are beautiful."

The lantern in his hand showed its light for some two feet before them. The mists seemed to part before him and close up again as they passed. The cobblestones were wet and slick under his feet. He heard a cat yowl plaintively. Braavos was a good city for cats, and they roamed everywhere, especially at night. In the fog all cats are grey, Andrew thought. In the fog all men are killers.

Braavos was lost in fog. He could see the green water of the little canal and the cobbled stone street that ran on the other side of the canal, two arches of the mossy bridge... but the far end of the bridge vanished in greyness, and of the buildings across the canal only a few vague lights remained.

He heard a softsplash as their boat slowly swayed in the water of the canal. Andrew gave the lantern to Joy and knelt down to unwound the bindings of the boat. When he freed the boat he climbed onto it carefully. He got the latern back from Joy and hung it on the side of the boat. Andrew offered his hand to her and Joy took it with a smile. She climbed onto the boat gingerly using his hand for support. Andrew took the oars and pushed the boat away from the land.

The sounds of the oars splashing in the waters echoed hollowly off the swirling green waters and the walls of unseen buildings. It was easy to row a boat without his jacket on. His white shirt gave enough freedom and the cold was welcoming. It almost reminded him of the north, his home. He had always wished to go back there, to Winterfell. It was just as easy. All he wanted was to keep going in the north and he would be in the shores of it on his own. He wondered what it would be like if he ever reached Winterfell. He had known everyone in Winterfell and everyone had known and loved him in turn. They had always been good and kind to him perhaps they would still be good to him. They would not even remember you, a voice inside him said. You would've been buried in the crypts with your father and mother beside your grandfather and uncle. There were different paths before him but Andrew was not sure about which to take. Right now all he knew was to take Joy to the place as he had promised her to.

They had never been away from each other since the day he told her about him and his family. Andrew followed her everywhere and they spent their time together. She took him to all the places she went, to meet some people, or sick children and he went along with her. He enjoyed her company and was happy to be with her. She made him realize the things he'd been doing and the mistakes he had done in the past and helped him to change that. For days Joy has asked him about it and he had wanted to bring her to the place and he got the chance now.

He had taken Frost with him. Joy had kept the sword away from him and only gave it back two days before. It took a good deal of talks to get his sword back and he knew that he might need to use it again.

He had never seen a thicker fog than this one. On the largercanals, the watermen would be running their serpent boats into one another, unable to make out any more than dim lights from the buildings to either side of them. Andrew was glad that he had to follow the smaller canals. He need to be careful enough when he gets to the larger canals.

The street was so gloomy on either side that he could scarcely see them but their dim lights. He rowed them through the predawn gloom, wending down a confusion of small canals. Braavos only had three kinds of weather; fog was bad, rain was worse, and freezing rain was worst. But every so often would come a morning when the dawn broke pink and blue and the air was sharp and salty. Those were the days that Andrew loved best.

When they reached the broad straight waterway that was the Long Canal, he turned south for the port. Joy sat with his jacket wrapped tight around her looking at the fogs. She gave a smile when she saw him looking at her. Andrew smiled to himself and kept on with the oars.

The Long Canal took their boat beneath the green copper domes the the Palace of Truth and the tall square towers of the Prestayns and Antaryons before passing under the immense grey arches of the sweetwater river to the district known as Silty Town, where the buildings were smaller and less grand. Later in the day the canal would be choked with serpent boats and barges, but in the predawn darkness they had the waterway almost to themselves. Andrew liked to reach the port just as the Titan roared to herald the coming of the sun. The sound would boom across the lagoon, faint with distance but still loud enough to wake the sleeping city.

He swung them south to the docks and down the gullet of a great canal, a broad green waterway that ran straight from the port into the heart of the city.

They passed through the channel where a row of mighty statues stood along both sides of the channel, solemn stone men in long bronze robes, spattered with the droppings of the seabirds. Some held books, some daggers, some hammers. One clutched a golden star in his upraised hand. Another was upending a stone flagon to send an endless stream of water splashing down into the canal. The Sealords of Braavos, Andrew knew them. He'd seen these statues many times over.

The harbor and lagoon soon came to his sight. The sun was already up by the time they came up to the lagoon. The Titan roared to indicate the day break. They still had a long way before them. The isle was at the far end of Braavos away and isolated from the eyes of most men. The sun would be high up in the sky by the time they reach it.

The fogs gave out as they moved further and the sun rose higher. The color returned to the world and the cold was reducing gradually. By the time they hit the open sea Joy saw it fit to give back his jacket seeing there was no use for it without the cold. Andrew put it beside him and rowed the boat.

As he had thought it was near to midday by the time they reached the isle. The shores were filled with huge rocks and big stones as he'd seen them before but what was interesting about the isle was the main land. There were no trees in Braavos except for this island alone. He could see the trees, the leaves and feel the gentle breeze from them. Joy was entirely surprised to see it.

"It's so beautiful," she said never taking her eyes off of the island.

"It is," Andrew said and brought them to the shore. He hopped down from the boat and pushed it on to the beach. Joy jumped down from the boat and ran straight to the woods. Andrew laughed and took up Frost before following after her.

The smell of trees and leaves and earth was so strong and he found himself wondering how much he had missed the smell. The air was rich and fresh without even a hint of salt in it. Joy's laughter echoed off the glades of trees and he followed it. He found her near a stream and she left it as soon as he found her. Half the trees had brown leaves which indicated the end of summer and the beginning of autumn.

Joy enjoyed every bit of her time in the isle. She ran through the little streams splashing the waters. She laid on the forest floor covered with leaves. She covered herself with the leaves and came bursting out of the leaves, laughing. Andrew stood aside and watched her doing all her things. Looking at her so happy made him smile. Somehow he felt happy just looking at her. He went about and collected a dozen leaves from different trees. Green, yellow, gold, red, brown, the color varied with the leaves and so did the shapes and size of the leaves. He left her to her play and sat beneath the tree and started to wove the leaves into a crown. He had seen his father gift a crown of roses to his mother once, roses violet and beautiful as the stars in the twilight sky. His mother had put away her royal crown in favor for the floral crown that day. She had spent the entire day with the crown of roses on her head and she was very beautiful with the crown of roses upon her head. There was no roses to be had here but the leaves might be pretty too once it was set perfectly. One by one he put the leaves and bound them with grass. The first few times he had no success. Every time he put up the fourth leaf the grass binding would give out and his crown came crumbling down to a scatter of leaves. He tried again and again, at last the binding stood and his crown came up layer by layer.

When the crown was done, Andrew held it at his arm's length and tilted it to the sides to examine it. It has come out perfectly and more fine than he had initially thought it to come. He took Frost in one hand and the crown in the other and went back to Joy. She was collecting the leaves too. A cluster of them was in her hands, green and red and yellow and gold and every other colors the trees offered.

She smiled at him when she saw him there. "This place is amazing," she said as she picked up another leaf from the ground. "I'm collecting them as a keepsake."

"Well, to that," Andrew said, "I made something for you." He slowly brought the crown from the back and showed it to her. "I hope you like it."

Joy let the leaves in her hands drop and took the crown from his hand. She looked at the crown intently and then looked up at him with a smile. "It is so beautiful."

"Do you like it?" Andrew asked her.

She laughed at that. "I like it," she said laughing. "I like it very much. Thank you." She put her arms around his neck and hugged him tightly.

Andrew put his arms around her hesitantly and returned the embrace. He could swear that he was blushing hard right now and was thankful that Joy cannot see him now.

Joy got away from him and put the crown on her head. "So how do I look?"

Andrew looked at her and she was painfully gorgeous. The leaves matched with her gown and they stood out with her golden hair. He took a breath to calm himself and get his words. "You... You're beautiful."

They stayed there until the west sky turned to the color of bruise purple. They washed themselves up in the cold clear water of the stream.

"How do you know this place," Joy asked from behind as he washed up his hands.

Andrew turned back to look at her. Joy was washing her face but the crown he gave her was still on her head. "I would come here with Syrio to train. It was so peaceful and quiet and I learnt most of my skills from here."

"It's good that he brought you here," Joy said running her hand through her locks of golden hair. "Else I wouldn't have gotten to see it. Thank you."

"We might come here again," he said. "If you want."

"Oh, I would love to come here again."

The journey back to their building continued in the same way they came. Joy had not taken her crown down. Andrew lightened the lantern and continued to row the boat.

The rainfall came when they cut from the Long Canal to the smaller one which would take them back to their building. Andrew gave his jacket to Joy and asked her to cover her head with it. He hoped that it would not turn into the freezing rain. They were very well likely to be doomed to get caught in the freezing rain in an open place. He rowed as fast as he can to get away from the rain.

They were completely soaked by the time they reached their place. Joy had his jacket over her head to keep the rain away. Andrew took Frost and the lantern and they ran to their room. They climbed up the stairs in hurry, laughing and Joy opened the door. He hung up the lantern and placed Frost on the table and turned to Joy.

She was shivering and rubbing her hands together trying to warm herself up. "I can't feel my fingers," she said holding her hands out for him to see. "I can't feel them."

Andrew took her hands in his and kissed her fingers. Her hands were so cold and Andrew blew his breath over her fingers and kissed them again and again to warm her up. When he looked at her, his grey eyes met with her green ones. He leaned in forward to kiss her lips and Joy met him at halfway. Her lips were warm and so was her tongue and mouth. He took up the forest crown he had given her from her head and placed it neatly on the table all the while kissing her.

His hands were so eager to get the clothes off of her and her hands likewise did to him. His shirt went first followed by her gown until they both were naked as their nameday. She was so beautiful, her ample breasts and delicate curves and beautiful face made his heart race. Andrew kissed her again walking her to the bed. Joy pulled him with her to the bed and put her hands around him and kissed him harder.

Andrew kissed her mouth and trailed his lips down her neck, pressing kisses over her slim white neck. Joy moaned with his kisses on her neck and tilted her head back. He pressed hot open-mouthed kisses on her neck and trailed lower. He kissed both her breasts and returned back to her mouth.

Andrew kissed her mouth as he entered her. Joy gasped when he broke through her maidenhead. Andrew stilled above her giving her time to get used to the feeling of him inside her. When Joy nodded he thrust himself inside her again. He kissed her mouth, her eyes, her ears, her cheeks and all her face as he moved inside her. Joy moaned into his mouth and hugged him tighter to her. He kissed her again, kissed her neck, her throat, her breasts and her nipples as he made love to her.

Her skin was smooth beneath his fingers, as warm to the touch as the walls of Winterfell. Her hair was wet and thick and smelled of rain and leaves, a dark and earthy smell that made him move faster into her. He drove into her, again and again and again and soon, Joy made a whimpering sound and arched her back beneath him. Andrew thrust twice more into her and spent his seed within her.

He stayed on her for a dozen heartbeats, catching his breath back. He rolled off of her to sprawl staring at the ceiling. When Joy's hand found his cheek he turned to face her. He never knew what to say to her at that time but he knew one thing clearly. Andrew kissed her lips again and said, "I love you."

Joy smiled at him and leaned up to kiss him. Andrew kissed her back and held her close to him. It had been long since Andrew Stark got a good night's sleep without his dreams but that night he slept peacefully with Joy in his arms.


	36. Chapter 36

_**Samwell**_

It has been long since Samwell Tarly had been happy, truly happy. He couldn't remember a time when he was so happy like he was now. They had said the news to him sometime before and Sam couldn't contain his overwhelming joy after hearing it. He was selected into the Night's Watch. He is going to be a brother of the Night's Watch now. With Edd and Pyp and Grenn and all the others. Edd had worked for it more than he had so he must be the first one to know it and Sam was searching for his friend to say about the good news.

He found him in the common hall. Edd was breaking his fast on applecakes and blood sausage. Sam Tarly plopped himself down on the bench beside him. "I've been summoned to the yard," he whispered excitedly. "They're passing me out of training. I'm to be made a brother with the rest of you. Can you believe it?"

"No, truly?" Edd cocked his eyebrows at him.

"Truly. I'm to assist Maester Aemon with the library and the birds. He needs someone who can read and write letters."

"You'll do well at that," Edd said with a smile.

Sam smiled back at him. "Thank you," he said to Edd. "If it wasn't for you I don't think I'd be here."

Edd patted on his back. "We're brothers remember," Edd told him. "And brothers are supposed to take care of each other."

Samwell Tarly nodded. He briefly wondered what his brother Dickon was doing now, probably spending his time in the yard. Sam loved his brother as much as any man could love his brother but he remembered Benjen Stark's words again. He looked at Edd, he is his brother now. Him and all the others of the Night's Watch, even Ser Alliser Thorne.

He glanced around the room anxiously. None of the other recruits who had passed the trained was there except the two of them. "Is it time to go?" he asked Edd. "I shouldn't be late, they might change their minds."

"I think we should go then," Edd chuckled and they left the hall.

Sam was fairly bouncing as they crossed the weed-strewn courtyard. He felt the urge to dance in joy but then thought against it. Men of the Night's Watch don't dance. The day was warm and sunny. Rivulets of water trickled down the sides of the Wall, so the ice seemed to sparkle and shine.

In the yard, the training dummies and the arrow marks had been taken away to make place for the benches where the other recruits who'd passed the training sat. Pyp's mouth dropped open when he caught sight of Sam, and Toad poked Grenn in the ribs, but no one dared say a word. A raised wooden alter was made up for the high officers of the Night's Watch.

The high officers arrived in a body; Maester Aemon leaning on Clydas, Ser Alliser cold-eyed and grim, Lord Commander Mormont resplendent in a black wool doublet with silvered bearclaw fastenings. Behind them came the senior members of the three orders: red-faced Bowen Marsh the Lord Steward, First Builder Othell Yarwyck, and lastly came the First ranger, Benjen Stark.

Mormont stood on the wooden altar, the a fringe of white hair covering his broad receeding head. "You came to us outlaws," he began, "poachers, rapers, debtors, killers, and thieves. You came to us children. You came to us alone, in chains, with neither friends nor honor. You came to us rich, and you came to us poor. Some of you bear the names of proud houses. Others have only bastards' names, or no names at all. It makes no matter. All that is past now. On the Wall, we are all one house.

"At evenfall, as the sun sets and we face the gathering night, you shall take your vows. From that moment, you will be a Sworn Brother of the Night's Watch. Your crimes will be washed away, your debts forgiven. So too you must wash away your former loyalties, put aside your grudges, forget old wrongs and old loves alike. Here you begin anew.

"A man of the Night's Watch lives his life for the realm. Not for a king, nor a lord, nor the honor of this house or that house, neither for gold nor glory nor a woman's love, but for the realm, and all the people in it. A man of the Night's Watch takes no wife and fathers no sons. Our wife is duty. Our mistress is honor. And you are the only sons we shall ever know.

"You have learned the words of the vow. Think carefully before you say them, for once you have taken the black, there is no turning back. The penalty for desertion is death." The Old Bear paused for a moment before he said, "Are there any among you who wish to leave our company? If so, go now, and no one shall think the less of you."

No one moved.

"Well and good," said Mormont. "You may take your vows in the sept at evenfall, before Septon Celladar and the first of your order. Do any of you keep to the old gods?"

None stood. Sam had nothing to do with the Old Gods. He had been named in the light of the Seven at the sept on Horn Hill, as his father was, and his father before him, and all the Tarlys for a thousand years.

"Good then," Mormont said. Sam looked to Edd as he waited for the next part eagerly. "We have placed each of you in an order, as befits our need and your own strengths and skills." Bowen Marsh stepped forward and handed him a paper. The Lord Commander unrolled it and began to read. "Halder, to the builders," he began. Halder gave a stiff nod of approval. "Grenn, to the rangers." Grenn shared a smile with Edd as he left the bench. "Albett, to the builders. Pypar, to the rangers. Samwell, to the stewards." Sam sagged with relief, mopping at his brow with, the back of his hands. He had been named at last, there is no turning back now. "Matthar, to the rangers. Dareon, to the stewards. Todder, to the rangers. And Eddison Tollet, to the stewards."

The stewards? For a moment Sam could not believe what he had heard. Lord Commander Mormont must have read it wrong. Edd was the best swordsman and the best rider they'd got. It made no sense to make him as steward. But Edd had taken it so calmly. He stayed there in his place unmoving and if he was surprised or sad or angry he never showed it on his face.

The Old Bear rolled up the paper. "Your firsts will instruct you in your duties. May all the gods preserve you, brothers." The Lord Commander favored them with a half bow, and took his leave. Ser Alliser went with him.

"Rangers with me," Benjen Stark called when they were gone. Pyp and Grenn were staring at Edd as he got slowly to his feet. Matt and Toad fell in beside them, and they followed Benjen Stark from the yard.

"Builders," announced lantern-jawed Othell Yarwyck. Halder and Albett trailed out after him.

Maester Aemon's blind eyes were raised toward the sun he could not see. Only Edd and Dareon remained on the benches with him.

Lord Steward Bowen Marsh rubbed his plump hands together. "Samwell, you will assist Maester Aemon in the rookery and library. Chett is going to the kennels, to help with the hounds. You shall have his cell, so as to be close to the maester night and day. I trust you will take good care of him. He is very old and very precious to us.

"Dareon, I am told that you sang at many a high lord's table and shared their meat and mead. We are sending you to Eastwatch. It may be your palate will be some help to Cotter Pyke when merchant galleys come trading. We are paying too dear for salt beef and pickled fish, and the quality of the olive oil we're getting has been frightful, Present yourself to Borcas when you arrive, he will keep you busy between ships."

Marsh turned his smile on Edd then. "Lord Commander Mormont has requested you for his personal steward, Tollet. You'll sleep in a cell beneath his chambers, in the Lord Commander's tower."

"Alright," Edd said with a hint of humor. "I think I should serve the Lord Commander's meals, help him fasten his clothes, fetch hot water for his bath then."

"Certainly." Marsh looked at Edd. "And you will run his messages, keep a fire burning in his chambers, change his sheets and blankets daily, and do all else that the Lord Commander might require of you."

When Edd left the yard, Dareon and Sam went with him. The Wall shining in the sun, the melting ice creeping down its side in a hundred thin fingers. He wanted to make sure that Edd is alright about it. Edd had been there for him whenever he needed and it is right for him to be with him now. He moved to Edd.

"Edd," he said excitedly, trying to lift up the mood. "Wait. Don't you see what they're doing?"

"I know what they're doing," Edd said as he walked. "I'm being assigned as a steward."

Dareon gave him a look. "The stewards are fine for the likes of you and me, Sam, but not for him."

"It's not like that Dareon," Edd said never stopping. He continued on his way and Sam desperately tried to keep up with him.

"There is no shame in being a steward," Sam said.

"You are the personal steward of the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch," Sam reminded him. "You'll be with him day and night. Yes, you'll pour his wine and see that his bed linen is fresh, but you'll also take his letters, attend him at meetings, squire for him in battle. You'll be as close to him as his shadow. You'll know everything, be a part of everything . . . and the Lord Steward said Mormont asked for you himself!

"When I was little, my father used to insist that I attend him in the audience chamber whenever he held court. When he rode to Highgarden to bend his knee to Lord Tyrell, he made me come. Later, though, he started to take Dickon and leave me at home, and he no longer cared whether I sat through his audiences, so long as Dickon was there. He wanted his heir at his side, don't you see? To watch and listen and learn from all he did. I'll wager that's why Lord Mormont requested you. What else could it be? He wants to groom you for command!"

There was a faint surprise in Edd's face now and a smile graced his lips too.  
"Thank you, Sam," he said at last.

"We're brothers remember," Sam reminded him. "And brothers take care of each other."

They said their vows in the Sept before the Seven at evenfall, when the sun was down. Everyone in Castle Black had come to witness them become as the men of the Night's Watch. Lord Commander Mormont, Benjen Stark, Maester Aemon, Bowen Marsh, Othell Yarwyck, the armorer Donal Noye and all the others were there. Septon Celladar was swinging a censer, filling the air with fragrant incense that reminded Sam of the sept in Horn once the septon seemed sober. All of them knelt before the altar of the Seven.

They said the words together, as the last light faded in the west and grey day became black night.

"Hear my words, and bear witness to my vow," they recited, their voices filling the candle lit sept. "Night gathers, and now my watch begins. It shall not end until my death. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall wear no crowns and win no glory. I shall live and die at my post. I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men. I pledge my life and honor to the Night's Watch, for this night and all the nights to come."

The sept fell silent. "You knelt as boys," Lord Commander Mormont intoned solemnly. "Rise now as men of the Night's Watch."

Sam took Edd's hand and came back to his feet. The other brothers gathered round to offer smiles and congratulations. And Samwell Tarly joined himself with the House of Night's Watch with all those men as his brothers.


	37. Chapter 37

_**Andrew**_

A wind sighed into their room through the open window, rich with the smell of morning mist and rain, but all Andrew Stark could think of was the girl underneath him, her beautiful face, her soft moans, the heat of her, the mouth on his. They moved against each other in the first light of dawn. Joy kissed his ear and he nuzzled her neck burying his face in her thick golden hair. Her sweet fragrance filled his nose and he loved her smell be it on him or on her. Her scent made him move faster and deeper into her, his hand sliding over to her bosom to find a breast, rolling her nipple between his fingers. When she pulled him down for another kiss he spent his seed deep within her womb.

When he rolled off her to lay on the bed she rested her head against his chest. They had made love twice in the night and now in the morning. He had been in her half a hundred times before but somehow found himself eager for more. He wondered what his father might think of what he had become? Dishonoring a girl and himself by getting in her bed. The northerners had claimed that King Eddard was the most honorable man and what would the honorable King Eddard think of his son. He would be happy that he found Joy and mother too, she would be happy as well. "I love you, no matter what I'll always love you," she had wrapped her hands around him on that day Andrew had left her in that river. Even his father and mother had shared a bed even before they had wed. He has heard that story many times before. Of how Lord Eddard had fallen for the Lady of the Stars. His parents' life had been a happy one and he could have it too.

"How big is Winterfell?" Joy asked tracing some pattern over his chest.

"Winterfell is big, so big that the men on top of the walls look like small balls from the ground. The Wall is much bigger than Winterfell that it would be like comparing a dwarf with a giant."

She looked as if she thought he was making that up. "Have you seen it?"

"No, I haven't," Andrew admitted. "But my father has seen it and my uncle lives there. I've heard their stories."

"How could they build a thing as massive as that?"

"In legend, Brandon the Builder used the help of giants and mammoths to raise the Wall," Andrew told her. He had heard this story many times before from both his father and Old Nan. "They cut huge chunks of ice from some frozen lake and brought them with the help of mammoths and giants. The children of the forest also helped Brandon to build the Wall."

"The children of the forest?" Joy raised her head from his chest to look at him.

"Some kind of small magical people," Andrew told her. "They are all dead now."

"Did they help him to build Winterfell too?"

Legends said that Brandon the Builder had used giants to help raise Winterfell, but Andrew did not want to confuse her with more tales of giants and children of the forest. Only if I could show her Winterfell . . . give her a flower from the glass gardens, feast her in the Great Hall, and show her the stone kings on their thrones. We could bathe in the hot pools, and love beneath the heart tree while the old gods watched over us.

The dream was sweet . . . but Winterfell would never be his to show. It was lost to the Targaryens now, the seat of the King in the North. He had left it in their hands and ran away for his life. He had left his home for his life.

"If you want, maybe I could take you to Winterfell so you can see it for yourself," Andrew said stroking her hair. "We could go to Starfall as well. The Palestone Sword Tower is the biggest tower I've ever seen. And my mother said that in Oldtown, there's a tower even bigger than the Wall. We can go see it too. We will go to Casterly Rock as well, to see your home."

Joy chuckled at that. "You really do love me," she said placing a kiss at his cheek. "All I asked was a single question and you'll make all of it happen."

"Aye, I do," Andrew kissed her lips and then her wrist and palm.

He loved her, that much was sure for him. They shared the same bed every night, and he went to sleep with her head against his chest and her golden hair tickling his chin. The smell of her had become a part of him. Her beautiful face, the feel of her breast when he cupped it in his hand, the taste of her mouth . . . they were his joy. Many a night he lay with Joy warm beside him, wondering if it was even possible for him to have a family, especially with her.

She was too sweet and good to bring her into his life. He was a wanted assassin who plays with death with nothing to lose. Joy deserved better than him, better than this red slaughter he had as a life. But no matter how hard he tried he could not bring himself away from her.

"We should probably get up," she said, and sat upon the bed, "You said you want to go meet your friends."

"Yes," Andrew said and got away from the bed. It was past time he visited Illola and the girls. Illola should probably be worried sick by now with all the rumors claiming him dead.

"I could prepare you a hot bath."

Andrew looked at Joy smiling. "I had thought to share a bath with you."

Joy punched his arm. "Not now, my royal wolf."

"As you say, my sweet lioness," he teased. "Is that because if we shared the bath we won't be able to meet them?"

"Oh, shut up, Andrew Stark," Joy told him putting on her nightgown. "It is you who can't keep your paws off of me."

"My paws?" Andrew chuckled. He caught her wrist and pulled her against him. "But you love to have my paws on you." He kissed her fully on her mouth. Joy deepened the kiss and pulled away from him before he could bring her to the bed. She left him to prepare their bath.

Joy was already dressed by the time he came back from the bath. She was so excited to meet some new people from his life especially the ones who had raised him. It only took little time for Andrew to put on his clothing.

They had already decided to walk the way. Joy loved to walk and Andrew was more than happy to walk with her. It might help him with learning about Rhaegar too, a word or two slipped from a drunken sailor or some westerosi guards still searching for him. He had thought Rhaegar to be better than this. He had let him get away twice now and he'll never get a third chance, Andrew was sure about that. He is not ready to give Rhaegar a third chance.

Joy preferred to go the long way, down the Ragman's Road along the Outer Harbor, where the sea was there before them and the sky above, and a clear view across the Great Lagoon to the  
Arsenal and the piney slopes of Sellagoro's Shield. Sailors of hundred different places hurried and rushed along the way as they passed the docks, some calling down to their crews and shouting orders from the decks of tarry Ibbenese whalers and big-bellied Westerosi  
cogs. Andrew never got any useful word he had wanted to hear about Westeros. He had hoped to get at least a bit of the king but there was none.

Some drunken men growled at Joy along the way, but once they saw him beside her they had a good reason to back away. Joy gave a knowing smile and shook her head as he chased another one away.

The long way took them across the Bridge of Eyes with its carved stone faces. From the top of the Bridge of Eyes, Andrew could look through the arches and see all the city: the green copper domes of the Hall of Truth, the masts rising like a forest from the Purple Harbor, the tall towers of the mighty buildings of the Braavosi nobles, the golden thunderbolt turning on its spire atop the Sealord's Palace... even the Titan's bronze shoulders, off across the dark green waters. But that was only because the sun was shining down on Braavos. Somehow the day had turned out to be one of them sunny days. If the fog was thick there was nothing to see but grey.

They crossed the Pearl House on the way. Andrew looked at the brothel as he crossed it. The board from which he had hung Viserys Targaryen stood still but the rope had been taken down. They had managed to clean most of the blood from the white paint with which they had written the word Pearl House in neat letters but there was still the dirty brown stain on them, the stain of the dried blood of Viserys Targaryen.

He remembered the day as much as he remembered his name. He remembered the fear on Viserys' face as he told him who he was, he remembered the crack and crunch of the bones as he punched his face in, he remembered the chokes and gasps and he hung him from the brothel. Nothing had made him so happy as that . . . except for her, he looked at Joy.

If he knew one thing and one thing only it is that he loved her. He knew that Joy was too good and sweet to be with him. It was easy to forget that sometimes, when they were laughing together, or kissing. But then the dreams would come back with blood and gore and bitter goodbyes, and he would suddenly be reminded of the wall between their worlds. She had no reason to be in his life of shadows, she deserved better, a better life and a bright one at that without blood and swords and well away from his dark and bloody one. His whole life had revolved around a sword but now when he was with her he didn't even want to wield the sword anymore. He had even left Frost back home. No man can own both a woman and a sword, Andrew knew it.

There was chill in the air. With his jacket flapping, he made his way along the cobblestones toward the Ragman's Harbor with Joy. They stayed to the smaller, darker streets, where he was less likely to encounter anyone, there were still men searching for him.

The best alehouses, inns, and brothels were near the Purple Harbor or the Moon Pool, but it was the Ragman's Harbor which sported many numbers, where the patrons were more apt to speak the Common Tongue. He passed the Inn of the Green Eel, the Black Bargeman, and Moroggo's, places which had been the fellow inns of the Foghouse. He crossed the Outcast Inn, the House of Seven Lamps, and the brothel called the Cattery, and far away in a neat place between two canals stood the Foghouse.

Outside the Foghouse there would always be several serpent boats tied up awaiting patrons who enjoyed the hospitality of their inn. Today it was almost free. Two lanterns hung in the front flanking the front door.

"Is this the one?" Joy asked when he stopped before the inn.

"It is," Andrew replied. He knocked the door once, twice, before the third knock the door opened and Ivanna eyed him through the little opening of the half-opened door.

He smiled widely as he saw the girl who had been like a sister to him. Ivanna threw open the door and put her arms around his neck to embrace him tightly.

"Andrew," she hugged him tightly. "Where were you?"

Before he could answer he heard Illola's voice behind her. "Ivanna who's-" she trailed off at once she saw Andrew. She rushed to him at once and hugged him. Ilaena and Sarrera came next, both of them hugging him at once and asking questions.

"I was away just for a work," he told the girls. Illola gave a look at him and backed. It was then she saw Joy behind him.

"Who's this?" she asked.

The girls turned all at once to see Joy behind him. Andrew stepped behind and took Joy's hand.

"This is Joy," he told them, his eyes never leaving hers. He hesitated about what to say after that. "A . . . A good friend of mine."

From the looks they gave him, he could tell they did not believe him. Even Joy's smile said that they did not believe him. The girls pushed him aside and embraced Joy at once.

"Aww, she's so pretty," Ivanna told him.

"Yes," Ilaena agreed with her. "How did you manage to get her, Andrew?"

Sarrera was so busy talking with Joy that she did not even pay a mind to him.

Illola welcomed Joy and took her inside. Joy turned to look at him, surprised and Andrew nodded at her. He followed them inside.

Joy had an easy time with the girls and they welcomed her as well. It made him happy to see her talk and play and laugh with the girls who had been a part of his life. Ilaena gave her lessons on the high harp, and Ivanna showed her new cooking tricks. Sarrera and Joy shared a song in Ilaena's music which broke all of them into laughter.

The girls took Joy into their company as if they had known her all their lives. Ilaena asked him as to why she had chosen him? While Ivanna asked if she had a hard time trying to teach him smile. I know how to smile, Andrew thought to himself. Sarrera whispered something to Joy and her sisters that he couldn't hear what she said but it must have been something funny because all of them laughed at once.

He was looking at them when Illola came to him. She gave him a tankard of rum and sat beside him. "So what happened?" she asked. "Where were you?"

Andrew took a long drink of his rum. The liquor was strong and heady; sweet at first, but with a fiery aftertaste that burned his tongue. "That's a long story," he told her. He told Illola everything that had happened right from the day to the present day. He told her how he rushed off to meet against an army in a mad rage, he told her about Rhaegar, about the arrows, about the canal and about Joy. How the golden lioness had saved him, how she knew his secret and how much he loved her.

"I like her," Illola said when he finished, looking at Joy laughing with her daughters.

"I do too," Andrew said smiling and took another drink of the rum.

"Besides you need someone to teach you to smile."

"I know how to smile."

They shared a good talk while the girls and Joy continued their talks and plays. For supper Joy helped Illola and the girls to make bread and meat. They sat down together and had a good time. They had not planned to stay the night in the Foghouse but the girls made Joy to stay there for the night.

They came up to his room to spend the night. It had not changed one bit from the day he had left the room.

Joy looked around the room and turned to him. "This is your room?"

"Yes," Andrew told her and took off his jacket.

She moved over to the table and looked at all the things. "What is this?"

Andrew looked at her hand and saw the one thing he possessed from his past. His star and direwolf pin, the one he had worn on that day the Targaryens have killed his family. He got it from her hand and looked at it. The silver direwolf head was fixed over a silver sword and had a falling star enclosing them in a half arc, starting from the hilt of the sword and ending at the point of it. When he grew up Illola had made it as a pendant in a chain for him. It was the only reminder of who he was and his past.

"A reminder from the past," he told her. He took the chain and clasped it gently around Joy's neck. The chain was long enough to fall a bit below the collarbone. "Joy, I-"

Before he could finish, Joy covered his mouth with her own. She broke off the kiss and rested her forehead against his. "Shut up. I know what you did and why you did it," she told him. "I'll be with you Andrew, always. In whatever you do I'll always be with you."


	38. Chapter 38

_**Rhaegar**_

The king was dressed warm particularly that day. He was garbed in heavy quilted breeches and a woolen doublet, and over it all he had thrown the heavy black samite cloak.

He was glad that he had dressed warmly. The chill in the long dank vault went bone deep. They were somewhere under the hill of Rhaenys, behind the Guildhall of the Alchemists. The damp stone walls were splotchy with nitre, and the only light came from the sealed iron-and-glass oil lamp that Hallyne the Pyromancer carried so gingerly.

Gingerly indeed . . . and these would be the ginger jars. Rhaegar lifted one for inspection. It was round and ruddy, a fat glass jar glowing green inside. It fit comfortably in his grip with no hint of slippery. The vessel was thin, so fragile that he had been warned not to squeeze too tightly, lest he crush it in his fist. The glass felt roughened, pebbled. Hallyne told him that was intentional. "A smooth pot is more apt to slip from a man's grasp."

The wildfire oozed slowly inside the jar when Rhaegar tilted the vessel in his hand. The color was a bright green, so bright that it glowed inside the jar. "It is thick," he said.

"That is from the cold, Your Grace," said Hallyne, a pallid man with soft damp hands and an obsequious manner. He was dressed in striped black-and-scarlet robes trimmed with sable, but the fur looked more than a little patchy and moth-eaten. "As it warms, the substance will flow more easily, like lamp oil."

The substance was the pyromancers' own term for wildfire. They called each other wisdom as well, which Rhaegar found almost as annoying as their custom of hinting at the vast secret stores of knowledge that they wanted him to think they possessed. His father had been so fond of the wildfire and the pyromancers alike. He went so far as to keep a favorite one to burn people and had even made him as his hand. He was so obsessed with wildfire to even meet his end with it. Once the alchemist's guild had been a powerful one, but in recent centuries the maesters of the Citadel had supplanted the alchemists almost everywhere. Now only a few of the older order remained, and they no longer even pretended to transmute metals . . .

. . . but they could make wildfire. "Water will not quench it, I am told."

"That is so. Once it takes fire, the substance will burn fiercely until it is no more. More, it will seep into cloth, wood, leather, even steel, so they take fire as well."

"Why doesn't it seep into the glass then?"

"Oh, but it does," said Hallyne. "There is a vault below this one where we store the older pots. Those from your father's day. It was his fancy to have the jars made in the shapes of fruits. Very perilous fruits indeed, Your Grace, and, hmmm, riper now than ever, if you take my meaning. We have sealed them with wax and pumped the lower vault full of water, but even so . . . by rights they ought to have been destroyed, but we have very little masters who can make wildfire of such quality, the few acolytes who now remain are unequal to the task. And much of the stock we made for King Aerys was lost. Only last year, two hundred jars were discovered in a storeroom beneath the Great Sept of Baelor. No one could recall how they came there, but I'm sure I do not need to tell you that the High Septon was beside himself with terror. I myself saw that they were safely moved. I had a cart filled with sand, and sent our most able acolytes. We worked only by night, we—"

"—did a splendid job, I have no doubt." Rhaegar placed the jar he'd been holding back among its fellows. They covered the table, standing in orderly rows of four and marching away into the subterranean dimness. And there were other tables beyond, many other tables. He knew how those jars came to be there. His father had ordered his ever faithful servants to blow up the city rather than to surrender it to him. Only by the efforts of Ser Jaime the whole thing was spared and Rhaegar had tasked Ser Jaime to find and eliminate all the pyromancers Rossart had placed throughout the city. They had removed most of the wildfire caches his father's Hand had hid in various parts of the city. It seems as if I still have to search more for the wildfire hidden in his city.

"These, ah, fruits of my father, can they still be used?"

"Oh, yes, most certainly . . . but carefully, my king, ever so carefully. As it ages, the substance grows ever more, hmmmm, fickle, let us say. Any flame will set it afire. Any spark. Too much heat and jars will blaze up of their own accord. It is not wise to let them sit in sunlight, even for a short time. Once the fire begins within, the heat causes the substance to expand violently, and the jars shortly fly to pieces. If other jars should happen to be stored in the same vicinity, those go up as well, and so—"

"How many jars do you have at present?"

"This morning the Wisdom Munciter told me that we had seven thousand eight hundred and forty. That count includes four thousand jars from King Aerys's day, to be sure."

"Our overripe fruits?"

Hallyne bobbed his head. "Wisdom Malliard believes we shall be able to provide a full ten thousand jars, as we promised. I concur." The pyromancer looked indecently pleased with that prospect.

Assuming our enemies give you the time. The pyromancers kept their recipe for wildfire a closely guarded secret, but Rhaegar knew that it was a lengthy, dangerous, and time-consuming process. He had assumed the promise of ten thousand jars was a wild boast, like that of the bannerman who vows to marshal ten thousand swords for his lord and shows up on the day of battle with a hundred and two. If they can truly give us ten thousand and with the dragons. . .

He did not know whether he ought to be delighted or terrified. He was not his father to burn people alive. "I trust that your guild brothers are not engaging in any unseemly haste, Wisdom. We do not want ten thousand jars of defective wildfire, nor even one . . . and we most certainly do not want any mishaps. If I ever hear about any wildfire accidents in the city, I'll know where to look at."

"There will be no mishaps, your Grace. The substance is prepared by trained acolytes in a series of bare stone cells, and each jar is removed by an apprentice and carried down here the instant it is ready. Above each work cell is a room filled entirely with sand. A protective spell has been laid on the floors, hmmm, most powerful. Any fire in the cell below causes the floors to fall away, and the sand smothers the blaze at once."

"Not to mention the careless acolyte," Bezzaro told from his side.

"My brethren are never careless," Hallyne insisted. "If I may be, hmmmm, frank . . . "

"Oh, do," Rhaegar said.

"The substance flows through my veins, and lives in the heart of every pyromancer. We respect its power. But the common soldier, hmmmm, the crew of one of the spitfires, say, in the unthinking frenzy of battle . . . any little mistake can bring catastrophe. That cannot be said too often. My father often told King Aerys as much, as his father told old King Jaehaerys."

"At least Jaehaerys listened," Rhaegar said. "My father did try to burn down the city. So your counsel is that we had best be careful? "

"Be very careful," said Hallyne. "Be very very careful."

"We will," Rhaegar told him. They are Targaryens, fire never harmed them no more than their dragons did.

He turned away from Hallyne. "I've seen enough. Perhaps you would be so good as to escort me back up."

"It would be my great, hmmm, pleasure, your grace." Hallyne lifted the lamp and led the way back to the stairs. "It was good of you to visit us. A great honor, hmmm. It has been too long since a King graced us with his presence. Not since your royal father. King Aerys took a great interest in our work."

My royal father used you to roast the flesh off his enemies. He had no more interest in you than a slave master has in his pitfighters. "I am as interested in your work as my father was. Perhaps we will even have a place for your order in the Prince's wedding feast ." At least then I can make sure that you don't burn down the city at my son's wedding.

"A most, hmmm, loving gesture, Your Grace. Perhaps a small demonstration of our powers, as it were, to celebrate Prince Aegon's wedding. Wildfire is but one of the dread secrets of our ancient order. Many and wondrous are the things we might show you."

"You shall do it." Rhaegar had no objection to a few magic tricks and if something was to go wrong and some of you had to die it will make it all the more better. At least he could rest easy knowing that they won't burn down his city.

The Guildhall of the Alchemists was an imposing warren of black stone, but Hallyne led him through the twists and turns until they reached the Gallery of the Iron Torches, a long echoing chamber where columns of green fire danced around black metal columns twenty feet tall. Ghostly flames shimmered off the polished black marble of the walls and floor and bathed the hall in an emerald radiance. Rhaegar would have been more impressed if he hadn't known that the great iron torches had only been lit this morning in honor of his visit, and would be extinguished the instant the doors closed behind him. Wildfire was too costly to squander.

They emerged atop the broad curving steps that fronted on the Street of the Sisters, near the foot of Visenya's Hill. He bid Hallyne farewell and walked with Bezzaro down to where Ser Gerold Hightower waited with his escort.

Rhaegar was surprised to see Ser Barristan standing with Ser Gerold. He had left Barristan Selmy back at the Red Keep. "What are you doing here, Ser Barristan?"

"Delivering your messages, Your Grace," Ser Barristan said. "Lord Varys came begging for immediate audience with you. He says it is urgent."

Varys? He was confused at first but then it striked him. "If it is so urgent I'd best see him then."

They set a quick pace for the Red Keep. The city was clean and in a good position considering his son's wedding is nearing. With the wedding in mind Rhaegar could not help but also to think about the talks of rebellion. He knew Robert never held any love for him and Jon Arryn was not so happy with the things happened with the north. He had always suspected them of plotting against him and with Robert's son marrying Lord Arryn's daughter it only strengthened his doubts. He need to be ready to meet them in war if it was necessary. He had no love for the alchemists' piss but he had to use it. And the wildfire could also be used in the Great War too. He had to be careful with them though. With Hallyne's talk about his father's overripe fruits all he could think of about was the wildfires stashes of his father still remaining unfounded. Another headache and he had to thank his father for this. He had to do it all alone now that Ser Jaime is not here to help him and had to do it without alarming the people. He already had enough problems all around him and his family and the last thing he needs is some riot inside the city while his enemies stirred for war outside.

The people stood by and watched as their column passed. Some were quick to bow their heads down as soon as they saw him but most just stood by and watched him pass with wide eyes. He saw a girl running after a cat, chasing it through the streets. The sight almost brought smile to his lips. He never knew how he did it but he found himself remembering another girl and a cat. Balerion had been the cat's name and he had gifted it to her. It hurt so much to think about it. Rhaegar shook the thoughts away. He had an important work to do and it will do no good to dwell on the past.

They reached the Red Keep shortly and Rhaegar left for his solar at once with his kingsguard in tow. He found Varys waiting for him in his solar. The eunuch was dressed in violet robes of silk and velvet.

"Your Grace, I brought some delighting news." he gushed, a soft eunuch's smile on his powdered face.

The words somewhat made him happy after the sad memory from the past. Rhaegar turned to Ser Gerold Hightower. "Bring me Janos Slynt," he told him. "At once."

Janos Slynt met them at his solar, armored in ornate gold plate, with a high-crested helm under one arm. The Commander bowed stiffly. "Your Grace."

"I have a work for you, Commander Slynt," Rhaegar told him. "Do it for me and there will be a lordship waiting for you in your return."

There was a slight smile in the frog face of the lord commander of the city watch and Rhaegar knew it was done. "I am yours to command, Your Grace," Slynt said. "When should I leave."

"At once." Yes, he knew. The sooner this is done the better.


	39. Chapter 39

_**Andrew**_

"Ha!" Ballos Aenon boomed when he saw Andrew in the tavern. "Andrew Snow. I feared we'd seen the last of you and that solemn face of yours."

"Since when did you come to fear about something, Aenon?"

That made the old man grin. "Well said, lad. I was never afraid of anything. Even now I could hope to match with you, toe-to-toe. Did you bring that blue sword of yours?"

"No, I didn't." He had no reason to bring Frost out today. The western sky was already red and the sun no more than a faint patch of brightness beneath the clouds. Night would be upon him before he reached home and wearing a sword at night will bring the bravos to him and challenging him. Andrew had no idea to get in a meaningless fight.

A serving girl kept a tankard of his strong black beer before him. Andrew took a drink from it and kept it on the table. "So what are you doing?" Andrew asked him. "You've been busy. I couldn't see you here."

"Busy?" Ballos laughed. "Now there's a word that I can say about you too. How was your sailing business?"

"My sailing business?"

"You know, the business you had to do in ships. Illola told me of it."

Of course she did and thank the Gods for that. He owed another thanks to the woman now. She had done a good job in covering up his disappearance. "Aye, that," Andrew sounded as coolly as possible. "That went good."

"Good for you." Ballos extended his cup towards a serving girl to refill it. "Things here were not so good while you were away in the sea, Snow." He came close to him and lowered his voice as he continued. "Do you remember the Westerosi Prince's death and the assassin who did it for the Targaryen? He came again. He came for the king when the Dragon king arrived in Braavos. Half a hundred people died that day and there were others too, common people who died in the commotion. I myself came close to crossing swords with him but Lord Tycho ordered me to bring him back to the castle and I should thank him for it, Snow. Trust me when I say, dozens of Braavos' finest bravos died that day. You could've got a good fight yourself. A shame you missed it."

I didn't miss it. I was there that day, Andrew thought but he kept quiet. "What happened to the king?" he asked.

"He ran back to Westeros," Ballos said. "He thinks he is safe in his castle, not in Braavos."

"What about the deal with the Iron Bank then?"

"It was not finished." Ballos took a long, big gulp of his drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "The king was too afraid to stay and finish them."

That was a good news. If Rhaegar doesn't have the support of the Iron Throne he loses one of his biggest allies and also his grip on his kingdom. At least his rage had done something good for him. Andrew chuckled lightly at the thought.

Ballos took the tankard and downed another swig, then wiped his mouth. "Well, you could not blame him for it though," the old man said. He lowered his voice once again. "Despite all the rumors going on, the assassin is not dead. He is not. He jumped into the canal and we searched for days for a trace of him but we got nothing."

I am very much alive and I have to thank Joy for it. "Perhaps, the eels might have finished him off."

"Might be," said Ballos. "Well, I never had much use for him anyway. But a man got to appreciate pure skill." He cracked a bawdy joke at a one-eyed bravo beside him who dropped his mead and the hall echoed with laughter. "Too good a skill to be wasted on eels."

"All men die."

"All men must die," Ballos admitted, "and women too, and every beast that flies or swims or runs. It's not the when of dying that matters, it's the how of it, Snow."

Andrew thought on that part. It was easy to think about but the truth of it was so hard. He would have died as a nameless assassin and a killer if Joy had not saved him that day.

"I should leave," Andrew said and got up. He has heard enough about Rhaegar for today. He wanted to go back to Joy and her arms. He wanted to talk to her about it.

It was already dark when he came out. The fogs had come back and covered the world in a sea of grey. The lantern which would always be lit during the night at the door of their room was not there today. He could not see it in the fogs and there was no light other than that as well.

"Joy," Andrew called as he opened the door. Inside the room was pitch black and there was no hint of light anywhere. Joy always kept their room lit during night. Never once had she left the fires burn out at their home.

"Joy," he called her again. There was no reply to be heard. It was eerily silent in the room. She must've gone to meet some sick children, he thought. Maybe she had left a note for me.

Someone was there in the room with him. Not Joy, he could say it. The wood creaked under his boots with his every step. It was too heavy to be Joy. He turned his head to the sound and the next thing he felt was a hard hit at his head and a sharp pain at his temple. A bright light flashed even though his eyes were closed in pain. They were behind him too. He felt two pairs of hands pushing him to his knees.

When he opened his eyes again, he saw a tallow candle burning where no candle had been a while before, its uncertain flame swaying back and forth.

"Look what we have here." In the leather chair behind the table where Joy would sit and mend his clothes, laugh at his jokes, where she would give him kisses, sat a big, broad, jowly man Andrew did not know. He had seen him somewhere before but he could not remember it. "The Born King, himself" he said again. "The one and only son of the Great Eddard Stark and the lovely Ashara Dayne."

"Looks like the boy had managed to live," a man in gold cloak beside him said, his flinty eyes were dark with amusement. He had Joy before him, a dagger at her throat. Andrew tried to push away the two men behind him to go to Joy, but they held him down, pressing him further against the floor.

"And why not," said the stout man in the chair. "He has the same traitor blood of his father to hide from his grace. Atleast your father had the gall to meet us in battle."

He felt his anger boil up inside him at that. His father was an honorable man. He was no traitor nor was he a coward. He looked at Joy, she was pale in fear. A purple bruise was at her cheek where the men must have hit her. He looked up at all their faces, five they were including the ones who held him and all five will die either today or another day.

"You can see Eddard Stark in his face don't you, Deem?" the jowly man asked the one who held the dagger at Joy's neck.

"At once I saw him, Lord Janos," the man called Deem chuckled.

"Long, solemn face and handsome as your father was and the black hair of your mother." The big, broad man stood up from the chair and walked to him. Andrew tried to shrug off the men who held him again but he could only earn a hard blow of a gauntleted hand to his cheek. Blood filled his mouth where his tooth cut his cheek. The stout man raised his hand to hit him again but stopped at halfway when a voice came from behind.

"Don't, please," Joy shouted. Tears were in her eyes now but they were not because of the dagger at her throat. "Please don't hit him," she said again through her tears.

Stout, jowly Janos Slynt walked back to Joy. "Well, I always wanted a woman who took my pain as her own," said the jowly man. "Why does it always have to be the Starks to get the beautiful women?"

He slid his short, fat hand around Joy's neck and tightened his grip. He could see the discomfort in her shining green eyes. Andrew swallowed his anger. Rage was not always the answer, he had learnt that lesson once and he would not make the mistake again not when Joy's life is in danger. "Get your hands off of her," Andrew told to Janos. "I'm the one who you need. Leave her alone."

"And who are you to command us?" Deem chuckled from behind Joy. "We don't serve your royal father, boy."

"Boy," snapped the jowly man. "You will not talk a thing with that traitor mouth of yours. I am free to do whatever I want with her. You brought her into this yourself, boy. The pretty little thing and you brought her into this." He took his hand away from Joy's throat and pointed a meaty finger at Andrew's face. "How good was she in your bed?"

Andrew gritted his teeth and fisted his hand.

"I suppose I'll know it when I fuck her," Janos Slynt said with a smirk. "When we all do." His men laughed at that.

Andrew looked to Joy and he remembered his mother. He had left her in the Torrentine river in the same way he is leaving Joy to the likes of men like Janos.

Slynt slammed a fist against his jaw again. "I've seen you! His Grace had your measure true enough, it seems. You are a traitor's son, not fit to live. I will kill you now. I, Janos Slynt will end the legend of the Born King. After I kill you, I'll go for your traitor uncle in the Night's Watch. It would not surprise me to learn that it was all part of the same fell plot. Benjen Stark may well have a hand in all this as well. I know you Starks better than anyone."

"My uncle is a man of honor."

"Honorable as Arthur Dayne who took up arms against the king he swore to protect," mocked Deem.

"More honorable than the likes of you," Andrew spat. "You don't even have the right to speak his name."

"Right?" said Slynt. "Well, we don't have the right to speak traitors' name. Your whole family was a traitorous one. Oh, yes. And I know the ways of wolves as well." He pointed at Andrew's face. "Your father died a traitor."

"My father was murdered." Andrew was past caring what they did to him, but he would not suffer any more lies about his father. "I remember you now. You were the one who led the armies into the Great Hall of Starfall."

Slynt purpled. "Murder? You insolent pup. Your father, the Great King Eddard moved against his liege and rightful king. Do you know how your father died? He watched how your mother was raped, again and again, and only when all of us were done with her, we chopped off his head and threw it into the sea along with your mother."

Andrew twisted and yanked away from the men's grasp and grabbed the dagger of the man to his right. He slashed open the belly of the man from whom he took the dagger and slit the throat of the other one who had held him before he could even draw his sword. He moved to Joy at once. Janos Slynt backed away behind the table and Deem held Joy, his dagger against her throat. Joy bit his hand and when the man took his hand away Andrew pushed Joy away and buried his dagger in Deem's right eye. He threw the dagger at the last one who had a longbow and the dagger lodged itself in his throat.

Janos Slynt ran to the door but Andrew was much quicker. He grabbed Slynt by the throat with such ferocity that he lifted him off the floor. He would have gladly throttled him but the frog-faced man had talked too much. "Rhaegar," Janos Slynt gasped, his jowls quivering and face turning purple. "It was Rhaegar."

Andrew took Slynt's own dagger from his belt. "Don't worry, he's next." He plunged the dagger deep into Slynt's gut and drew it upwards, tearing open his belly and spilling his insides out.

When Slynt grew limp in his hand he dropped the corpse down. His head throbbed badly where they had hit him with the wood.

"Andrew," he heard Joy call him, her voice faint as a whisper. He dropped the dagger and turned to her.

He found Joy laying on the wooden floor, with an arrow between her breasts. Her face had gone pale, and in the moonlight it looked as though she wore a glittering silver mask.

"No, no, no, no." Andrew rushed beside her, took her in his arms and cradled her against his chest. "Andrew," she said, very softly. It sounded as though the arrow had found a lung.

"Shhh." He took her hand. "It's alright. It's alright."

"Andrew," she whispered. "I would have loved to go and see Winterfell with you."

"We'll see Winterfell," he promised her. "It is big and shiny, you'd love it. There is this big picture of my father and mother. And father, he will protect us. No one dares to enter the north." He touched her hair. "We'll see mother as well. She would love you."

Joy just smiled at that. She cupped his cheek with her hand. "I love you, Andrew," she sighed, dying in his arms.

* * *

 _ **AN: I owe an apology to all the Andrew/Joy shippers out there, so I'm sorry, I really am. The time in Braavos has come to an end and Andrew is going home with double the need for vengeance. Leave a comment and let me know what you thought about the chapter. I'd love to hear your thoughts.**_


	40. Chapter 40

_**Andrew**_

Andrew Stark stood beside the wooden frame near the grave, dressed all in white and grey, House Stark's colors. His fingers curled around the floral crown, the flowers and leaves all withered and turned to yellow and brown now.

There was no sun in the sky at dawn and even the beautiful garden turned dim and eerie today. The first light of day slanted down through the high trees, washing over the wooden frame in a red gloom. Her golden hair did not gleam in the light this time. Her fires had died out just like the way the sun would hide in a foggy day.

He wanted to run his hands through it, smell her sweet life in the golden locks, kiss those blood red lips and see the glitter in the green eyes of hers for one last time. But he couldn't bring himself to touch her. Not after what he had done. He killed her as much as the bowman did. He did it. The archer may have loosed the arrow that slew her, but it was him who pushed her away from one blade to the path of another.

Slynt had the right of it. I brought her into this the moment I saw myself in her room.

A cool breeze left the leaves rustling in the trees. Andrew was alone with Joy, amongst the trees and the breeze and the pleasant sweet smell of the flowers. His head ached from the hit of the wood, and his legs felt almost numb. His arms and back ached heavily with all the work he'd done to dig the grave. Frost sat leaning against the tree where he had kissed Joy once. The thought hurt more than any blade or arrow has ever done.

Slynt and his friends were lying down in the bottom of the canal, feeding the eels but they were just the tools that had made the sword which did the deed and the man who wielded it still lived in the Red Keep. Rhaegar was behind it, that much he knew. Janos Slynt had said that again and again before Andrew gutted him.

His grief was so hard that it felt as if a hand was crushing his heart from the inside. It was queer, but he had no tears running down his cheeks. Even his tears has betrayed him like the gods had done. Perhaps there are no tears left in him for crying, he must have spent all of them in the past for his father and mother.

He had dressed Joy in her finest gown of blue myrish lace with the sleeves designed in the pattern of various leaves and vines and flowers. The cuffs of her sleeves were adorned with bright sapphires; her hands placed neatly over her stomach. Even in death she was beautiful, he thought, and kind.

He gripped the crown tightly in his and placed it gently on her head. Grief choked him as it had never done before. Andrew caressed her cheeks one last time. The color had gone from them and she looked pale. It should've been me to lie down here now, not her. The gods have truly taken everything from him and left him as a shell to still live in this world. He closed his eyes once more, close those tears and the grief as he had done a hundred times before. He kissed her one last time, pressing his lips onto hers. Her kisses had always been warm but now her lips were cold.

Drops of tears slipped down his cheeks as he saw her for the last time, the woman he loved, the girl who made him happy, his love and his life. Andrew brushed off the tears in his sleeve, swallowed his grief and pressed his hand over the chain he had given her. His mother had given the pin to him and he had given it to Joy as a chain. Both of them were dead but he was still alive. He kissed her once more and with a heavy heart placed her in the grave.

The rowing back was as quiet and sad as the grave. The wound was so fresh to think about anything else. Braavos stood hidden in the fogs and so was his life, hidden to him with all the grieving and mourning. There was nothing left for him in Braavos anymore, nothing left for him in his life. Nothing but his vengeance. Rhaegar was still alive while all his loved ones died on his actions and no matter how far he tried to move away from his life there will be blades and price over him and the ones around him. If the dragon thinks he can play the wolf he is very mistaken.

Winterfell was waiting for him leagues away in the north. His home, his father's home, his family's home. His father had fought for the north his entire life and he will fight Rhaegar in Westeros, not in Braavos. No one shall think that Eddard Stark's son went down without a fight. If it is a fight the dragon wants he will have his fight. It was not the prudent course, but he was tired of prudence, sick of secrets, weary of waiting. Win or lose, he would see Winterfell again before he died, and some of the dragon blood in Frost.

He had to say his farewells to Illola and the girls first. It'll be good for them to stay away from him too. At least then they'll be safe. The Foghouse was already lit up when he entered it but there was no one in the inn. Illola was going through the account book.

She smiled when she saw him but the smile dried off in her face within a moment. "Andrew, what's wrong?" She looked behind him. "Where is Joy?"

The look on his face must have told her everything she needed to hear. Illola rushed to him and put her arms around him and embraced him. There was some comfort from her that he absolutely craved for.

"What are you going to do now?" Illola asked him as he finished his breakfast.

"I'm going to Westeros," Andrew told her. "I'm going to face my destiny once and for all."

There was genuine fear in her face. "Andrew it is dangerous."

"I know," he told her. "So is cowering from them. All my life I've been running away from my identity and my life. No matter how fast I run and how hard I try to evade destiny is always inevitable. I'm tired of running away from it, I'm going to run towards it. All of it started in that castle and let it end in the same castle."

Illola placed her hand atop his. "Then let us come with you."

Andrew thought about Joy. She wanted to come with me to Winterfell. "It's too dangerous," he said. "I'll not have anyone else dying because of me. It is time I faced it alone." He gave her a smile. "Perhaps we'll meet again. When it all ends I'll have someone to come get you." He left the if I am alive part unspoken.

The girls came from work to meet him. All three hugged him showering him with questions. Andrew answered all of their questions, forcing a smile as good as he could. "I'll be away for a while in the sea," he told them when it was time for the farewells.

"When will you return?" Ivanna asked at once.

"I don't know," Andrew said. "I'll try to come back as soon as possible."

The girls hugged him, raining down kisses. He kissed their foreheads and gave a smile. It hurt to leave them too. He had walked with them, laughed with them, played with them and when they were younger they would even sleep together in the same room. They were his sisters in all but blood. It was best for them. He will not put their lives in danger. No one else will die because of him.

When the girls left him alone Illola embraced him painfully tight. "Be careful, Andrew."

"I will," he nodded.

As always Ragman's harbor was crowded and filled with ships.

Three of the ships were getting ready to set sail to Westeros. One of them was a wine cog from the Arbor. He knew it at once he saw the burgundy grape cluster on the blue sail. It is probably returning for the Arbor in the Reach. He could go to Oldtown in that ship. His grandmother had been a Hightower and old Lord Hightower might still remember his daughter, granddaughter and great grandson. Or not. The second was from Dorne with the Martell sun and spear in the sail. He had no reason to be in Sunspear and his mother's home was on the other end of Dorne away from Sunspear. The third ship caught his eye, a salt sea trader with two banks of oars, a gilded prow, and three tall masts with furled purple sails. Her hull was painted purple too. Andrew pushed past the line and moved past all the people to the ship.

"Oi, pal, there's a line here," one of the bravos in the crowd told him as Andrew went past him.

Not this thing again he thought. Throughout his time in Braavos Andrew had stayed away from the bravos but today he was not in a mind to hear their talk. He turned around and gave a look at the man, a lean one with an equally lean sword at his hip. His companion took a step back at once he saw Andrew's face.

"Terro," he called his friend and shook his head. "Don't."

Terro took his hand away from the hilt of his sword and raised his arms. "All right, pal."

Andrew nodded at him and walked to the ship.

A cask of mead was being rolled up the plank of the ship when he arrived. When he tried to follow, a sailor up on deck shouted down at him. "What are you doing here?"

"Who's the captain here?" Andrew asked him.

"I am the captain here," stout grey-haired man in a coat of purple wool said, "What is your wish? Be quick about it, we have a tide to catch."

"Are you going to Westeros?" Andrew asked him.

"Of course we are." The captain said. "We sail to the north."

That was what he wanted to hear. "Good," Andrew told him and threw a pouch to the captain. The stout man caught it in his hands and spilled out the silver onto his palm. His face brightened as the silver flashed against it and Andrew knew that it was done.

The captain grinned widely. "Welcome to the Fair Maiden."


	41. Chapter 41

The man on the roof was the first to die. He was crouched down by the chimney two hundred yards away, no more than a vague shadow in the evening gloom, but as the sky began to darken he stirred, stretched, and stood. Anguy's arrow took him in the chest. He tumbled bonelessly down the steep slate pitch, and fell in front of the wooden door of the holdfast.

The dragon guards had posted two guards there, but their torch left them night blind, and they had crept in close in the blanket of night. Kyle and Notch let fly together. One man went down with an arrow through his throat, the other through his belly. The second man dropped the torch, and the flames licked up at him. He screamed as his clothes took fire, and that was the end of stealth. Thoros gave a shout, and the brotherhood attacked in earnest.

Edric watched everything from his horse beside Lord Beric, from the crest of the wooded ridge that overlooked the wooden holdfast, mill, bakery, and stables and the desolation of weeds, burnt trees, and mud that surrounded them. The trees were mostly bare now, and the few withered brown leaves that still clung to the branches did little to obstruct his view. Lord Beric had left Beardless Dick and Mudge to guard their back and Edric saw their rear guard getting ready for battle behind them swords in the air.

The western horizon glowed gold and pink, and overhead a half moon peeked out through low scuttling clouds. The wind blew cold, and Edric could hear the rush of water and the creak of the mill's great wooden water wheel through the raging battle. There was a smell of rain in the dawn air, but no drops were falling yet. Flaming arrows flew through the evening mists, trailing pale ribbons of fire, and thudded into the wooden walls of the holdfast. A few smashed through shuttered windows, and soon enough thin tendrils of smoke were rising between the broken shutters.

Two guardsmen came bursting from the holdfast side by side, axes in their hands. Anguy and the other archers were waiting from them in the trees. One axeman died at once. The other managed to duck, so the shaft ripped through his shoulder. He staggered on, till two more arrows found him, so quickly it was hard to say which had struck first. The long shafts punched through his breastplate as if it had been made of silk instead of steel. He fell heavily. Anguy had arrows tipped with bodkins as well as broadheads. A bodkin could pierce even heavy plate. Edric was a decent marksman though compared to Anguy it was like comparing a dwarf to the giant. It had been the sword he favored like all the other knights of his House.

Flames were creeping up the west wall of the holdfast, and thick smoke poured through a broken window. A black cloaked crossbowman poked his head out a different window, got off a bolt, and ducked down to rewind. He could hear fighting from the stables as well, shouts well mingled with the screams of horses and the clang of steel. We have to kill them all, he thought fiercely. Kill every single one. Avenge the Starfall massacre, avenge his aunt, avenge his uncles, kill everyone to avenge them.

The crossbowman appeared again, but no sooner had he loosed than three arrows hissed past his head. One rattled off his helm. He vanished, bow and all. He could see flames in several of the second-story windows. Between the smoke and the mists, the air was a haze of blowing black and white. Anguy and the other bowmen were creeping closer, the better to find targets.

Then the holdfast erupted, the Targaryen guards boiling out like angry ants. Two men rushed through the door with the three headed dragon shields held high before them, and behind them came a knight in full armor with a greatsword and a shield with two great curved fangs painted upon it in black, and behind him three more guards came covered in black chainmail. Others were climbing out windows and leaping to the ground. Edric saw a man take an arrow through the chest with one leg across a windowsill, and heard his scream as he fell. The smoke was thickening. Quarrels and arrows sped back and forth. Watty fell with a grunt, his bow slipping from his hand. Kyle was trying to nock another shaft to his string when a man in black mail flung a spear through his belly. "The time has come," Lord Beric shouted to the men behind him. "Now."

He charged his horse through the trees. Edric and the others followed him out of the ditches and trees. When the rest of their band came pouring, steel in hand Edric knew that the Crownlanders were overwhelmed. Lem's bright yellow cloak flapped behind him as he rode down the man who'd killed Kyle. Edric followed Lord Beric closely. Thoros and Lord Beric circled around the holdfast, their swords swirling fire. The red priest hacked at a hide shield until it flew to pieces, while his horse kicked the man in the face. Edric slashed his sword at a man in chainmail and found his sword crunching the ribs of the man through the chainmail. The knight with the fangs in his shield charged the lightning lord, and the flaming sword leapt out to meet his greatsword. The blades kissed and spun and kissed again. Lord Beric knocked the knight off of his saddle. His white shield was burning, the white paint turning dark as the fangs in it. Lord Beric stopped his horse and went to meet him on foot. Edric ran his horse through a man who was coming for the Lightning Lord and cut him down. The knight dropped his burning shield and raised his sword in the air with both hands. He charged at Lord Beric. Edric went to meet him with his horse but Thoros stopped him with a hand on his reins. The red priest smirked at the and halted him to see the fight.

The knight was swinging his greatsword at Lord Beric savagely but lord Beric kept his cuts at bay with his flaming sword. He stopped a brutal backhand swing to his head and punched the knight's helmet with his mailed fist. The knight's helmet flew off and it only made him madder. His sandy brown hair was matted with blood and sweat.

"Darkfang," Thoros muttered beside him. Darkfang slashed at Lord Beric's head, chest and eye and managed to scrape his breastplate and helmet. His thrust at Lord Beric's eye was so strong that it would've buried the entire greatsword in his skull if Lord Beric had not moved aside in time. Darkfang was a skilled fighter, Edric could see that in the way he fought. He was cunning and cruel. Lord Beric stayed away from Darkfang's greatsword and hit his flaming sword at the knight whenever he can. With every hit of the flaming sword Darkfang lost his cool and rushed for Lord Beric. The lightning lord parried a swing at his neck and a slash at his abdomen and when Darkfang brought him greatsword in a massive swing at his head, Lord Beric ducked under his sword and rolled through to stuck his flaming sword in Darkfang's thigh right above the knee through opening in the plate on his thigh and his greeves. Darkfang dropped his sword and fell to his knee as Lord Beric stood up.

The battle did not last very long after that. The dark cloaks still on their feet soon died, or threw down their swords. Two of the guardsmen managed to regain their horses and flee, but only because Lord Beric let them go. "Let them carry the word back to Winterfell," he said, with flaming sword in hand. "It will give the boy prince and his dragon band a few more sleepless nights. If anything the boy might do something stupid and rush straight into our trap."

Jack-Be-Lucky, Harwin, and Merrit o' Moontown braved the burning holdfast to search for captives. They emerged from the smoke and flames a few moments later with eight smallfolk, and a child with a broken limb so bad that Merrit had to carry him across a shoulder. There were four men and four women. Only two men and two women were the adults and the rest were only boys and girls.

"You foul band of rougues," said Darkfang from his knees, coughing up blood. "King Rhaegar will hear of it. That will be the end of you."

Thoros smiled at him. "And this is yours Darkfang."

Darkfang spat. "Do you think I fear death?" he asked. "Go on, kill me and you'll find your answer."

"You'll die if that's what you wish," said Lord Beric. "But not before a trial."

Lord Beric slammed his sword into its scabbard, quenching the flames. "Give the dying the gift of mercy and bind the others hand and foot for trial," he commanded, and it was done.

The trials went swiftly. All of the smallfolk there came forward to tell of things the Targaryen men had done; towns and villages sacked, crops burned, women raped and murdered, men maimed and tortured. There were many villagers hiding in the houses around the holdfast and all of them came as they saw the holdfast burning.

The offenders soon dangled beneath a tall oak, swinging slowly by the neck. One by one all of them were hanged except for Darkfang. A few fought, kicking and struggling as the noose was tightened round their throats. One of the crossbowmen kept shouting, "I was just a soldier following orders." Another offered to lead them to gold; a third told them what a good outlaw he would make. Each was bound and hanged in turn. Tom Sevenstrings played a dirge for them on his woodharp, and Thoros implored the Lord of Light to roast their souls until the end of time.

A dead tree, Edric thought as he watched them dangle, their faces turned purple. Already the crows were coming, appearing out of nowhere. He heard them croaking and cackling at one another, and wondered what they were saying. It almost made him happy to see some dark cloaks dangling from the tree. Aunt Ashara and King Eddard would be avenged soon.

The holdfast soon collapsed in a roar of smoke and flame, its walls no longer able to support the weight of its heavy slate roof. The smallfolk watched with a hint of happiness in their face. "When King Eddard ruled here, this was a prosperous place. We had a dozen milk cows and a bull, a bakery and a mill. But when the dragons came through they killed our lord took all our wine and milk and honey, slaughtered the cows, and put our bakery to the torch. After that . . . our numbers were only reducing."

"How did the eight of you survive in that holdfast?" asked Anguy the Archer.

"They needed someone to do their works," one of the men said. "Someone to cook their foods and clean their things."

They sheltered that night in the mill beside the little river. Their enemies had a fresh supply of food brought from the Crownlands, so they shared a good supper; fresh bread, onions, oaten biscuits and a fine soup with chunks of meat in it. Lord Beric slipped a piece of meat into Edric's bowl. When Edric looked at him the lightning lord was continuing with his soup as if nothing had happened. He put the meat in his mouth and bit into it. It crunched and was rich in the flavor of the soup.

The smallfolk never asked their names. Everyone in the north knew them, Edric thought. How could they not? Lord Beric wore the lightning bolt on breastplate, shield, and cloak, and Thoros his red robes, or what remained of them. The Wolfswood Brotherhood, a ragged band of rogues of the Outlaw King. But it was the Kingsmen they called themselves, fighting for the good and justice in their King's name.

Lord Beric did not eat his bread and oaten biscuits. He never ate anything more often but only took a cup of wine or ale or a good hot bowl of soup. He was still clad in his ratty black cloak and dented breastplate with its chipped enamel lightning. He even slept in that breastplate. A thick woolen scarf was wound up around his neck concealing the dark ring about his throat. A black patch always covered his missing eye.

Of all of the Kingsmen it was Lord Beric everyone in the north seemed to fear the most. He had defied death more than once. Arrow through the eye, Bolton's noose around his neck and everytime he defied death again and again.

Once Edric had been afraid for him. The man was betrothed to his aunt Allyria and took him as his squire. But ever after they came to the north all he had ever done was cheating death with the help of Thoros. The red priest was a fabulous healer. There was no better healer.

Edric had been fighting with them for six years now. When his father died with full of guilt for what happened to his sister and her family, Edric had followed Lord Beric to the north to wipe up all the blood which stained the pale marble walls of Starfall. Never once had he regretted the life he chose. He will do his duty as the Lord of Starfall when the time comes for it until then he is a Kingsman.

It was raining when Lem returned to the mill, muttering curses as water ran off his yellow cloak to puddle on the floor. Lord Beric had chained Darkfang to the oak from where his men hung and Lem was the first one to take guard. Anguy and Jack-Be-Lucky sat by the door rolling dice, but no matter which game they played one-eyed Jack had no luck at all. Tom Sevenstrings replaced a string on his woodharp, and sang "The Mother's Tears," "When Willum's Wife Was Wet," "Lord Harte Rode Out on a Rainy Day," and then "The Rains of Castamere."

And who are you, the proud lord said,

that I must bow so low?

Only a cat of a different coat,

that's all the truth I know

In a coat of gold or a coat of red,

a lion still has claws,

And mine are long and sharp, my lord,

as long and sharp as yours.

And so he spoke, and so he spoke,

that lord of Castamere,

But now the rains weep o'er his hall,

with no one there to hear.

Yes now the rains weep o'er his hall,

and not a soul to hear.

Finally Tom ran out of rain songs and put away his harp. Then there was only the sound of the rain itself beating down on the slate roof of the mill. The dice game ended, and Edric went to sleep.

It was Thoros who woke him up in the morning. They had planned to set back at first light. Wyatt and Merrit were putting a bounded Darkfang onto a horse as he came out. When everyone arrived and mounted their horses, Lord Beric gave the command for them to go. Lem and Pate were tasked to keep watch on Darkfang. They rode beside Darkfang on either side and the others fell in before and after them.

They came to their secret base before midday. A huge firepit had been dug in the center of the earthen floor, and its flames rose swirling and crackling toward the smoke-stained ceiling. The walls were equal parts of stone and soil. People were coming from between the stones; edging out from the shadows for a look at the captive, stepping from the mouths of pitch-black tunnels, popping out of crannies and crevices on all sides.

This has been their hideout for years now. An old place, deep and secret. A refuge where no one came to find. Lem and Greenbeard came in with Darkfang, shoving their captive down into the light of the fire.

They had bound Darkfang's wrists with hempen rope, strung a noose around his neck, and pulled a sack down over his head, but even so there was danger in the man.

Thoros turned to the prisoner and yanked his hood off. "Welcome to our humble hall, Darkfang."

Darkfang's mouth twitched. "This is where you lot have been hiding," he said to Thoros. "It is only a matter of time before they find it and burn this place to ash. And you and your silly company will burn along with it priest."

"These are my brothers," Thoros said simply. "And I've seen much and more in my flames and I saw no one burning."

"How long have you been hiding in this hole?" Darkfang asked. "Does the Prince know you're here? I hope not. But soon he will though and when he does he will come here with his dragon. That's why you've been hiding here, aren't you?"

Anguy bristled at the suggestion of cowardice. "Ask your Prince if we've hidden, Darkfang. Ask the lord of leeches. We've bloodied them all."

"You lot? Don't make me laugh. You look more swineherds than soldiers."

"Some of us was swineherds," said Pate. "And some was tanners or singers or masons. But that was before the war came."

"When we left our old life we were men of Winterfell and men of Marches and men of Blackhaven, Stark men and Dondarrion men. We were knights and squires and men-at-arms, lords and commoners, bound together only by our purpose." The voice came from the Wanderer seated amongst the nest of roots halfway up the wall. "Justice and righteousness are hard to find in this world right now." He was descending the tangle of steps toward the floor. "Someone has to fight for them else they will be completely wiped off from the face of this world." A scarecrow of a man, he wore a ragged white cloak sporting a dirty grey wolf of the Starks. A thicket of grey hair peppered with white covered his long face lined with age. "And we will fight for them as long as we live to keep justice and right in the memory of men. We fight on as best we can, for Eddard and the realm."

"Rodrik," Darkfang said in a unbelievable tone.

The Wandering wolf paid him no mind. "You will die soon enough, Darkfang," he promised, "but it shan't be murder, only justice."

"Aye," said Greenbeard, "and a kinder fate than you deserve for all your kind have done. We know what you do to people who don't bend to you, people who defy you. At Torrhen's Square and Stoney Shore, girls of six and seven years were raped, and babes still on the breast were cut in two while their mothers watched. And none has forgotten what happened at Starfall."

"There has been a good number of mistakes you've done, Darkfang," Lord Beric said. "The crimes of you and your kind have commited are uncountable."

Rodrik Stark turned back to Darkfang. "You stand accused of murder and torturing of the smallfolk, Derek Darkfang. In the name of King Eddard of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and King in the North, I, Rodrik Stark sentence you to die."

They hanged the man far away from Ghosthall to lead the men away from their hideout. Worrick and Jenton took Darkfang away to do the execution.

"The others?" Rodrik Stark asked when Darkfang was gone.

"Tried and executed," Lord Beric replied. "We've taken their food and loot and weapons they brought from King's Landing."

"Good," the Wandering Wolf said. "Keep harassing their supplies and men, Dondarrion. The boy might rush out in a made rage and fall in our trap. With the dragon gone we can easily rouse up the north to fight in Eddard's name. It shouldn't take long. Winter is coming"

* * *

 _ **A/N: So this might raise questions. Where was Rodrik all this time? What was he doing? The answer for that is he was found nearly dead by Beric &co years after he's been thought to be dead. By the time he was strong enough to get into war the Targaryen dragons' might stopped him from doing for reading. Leave a review.**_

 _ **For anyone who don't know who is Rodrik Stark, Rodrik was a canon character. He is Ned's grandfather on his mother's side. In this story he was the Stark in Winterfell when Ned, Ashara and Andrew went south.**_


	42. Chapter 42

_**Andrew**_

He woke up when the sun was well up in the sky. Andrew had spent most of his time in the Fair Maiden by sleeping. His meals would come to him in his cabin, some bread and curry or a broth of some kind. Sometimes he went to the deck to speak with the captain or anyone from the crew. He helped them to tie lines and change sails but he saw Joy in everything he did.

He saw her sweet smile and her beauty. I loved a maid as fair as summer, with sunlight in her hair. Even sleeping had done him no good. He saw her in his dreams along with mother and father.

The captain had provided him with the finest cabin and all sorts of luxuries. A feather bed for him to sleep, the finest of his foods and wine and even a supply of clean water. Atleast he provided enough for the silver Andrew had given him. He washed away the sleep from his face with a bucket of clear cold water.

His blades were there were he had left them before he had gone to sleep. Frost and the bracers were on the table of his room. Andrew had no use for them in the ship, he had learned that as soon as he got onto it. Everyone in the Fair Maiden had been warm to him. From the captain to the scrubber on the decks. He learned new methods to tie easy knots and to raise sails from the crew, taught them the methods he knew. At night the sailors would have some sort of gathering on the deck and sing songs from lands far away. Andrew would join them in the deck some nights but he would leave to his cabin before everyone else does.

When they had reached the Bite, Captain Moreo Tumites had commanded his men to be alert all the time and be ready for all dangers. Andrew knew that the waters of the Bite was infested with pirates and there were ships taken by the pirates in the Bite. The pirates were only the start of it. The Bite can be dangerous at every seasons around. There were scores of ships which lost in the raging waters never to be seen again. He had worn Frost along his back till the Fair Maiden crossed the Bite. It took a minor hit from the sea and the storms but the ship managed to cross it without any casualties.

He left Frost on the table but took his bracer in his hand. It was a deadly little thing. No one knew that a common bracer could bring death so swift and sudden. But his bracers had a concealable weapon that was composed of a narrow blade set into a channel on the underside of the bracers below the straps. Controlled by spring-loaded mechanism, the blade can spontaneously extend and retract from its position. He had put on a pressure switch inside the bracers so that he could easily trigger the blade with a flex of his wrist. The blades could be launched with the flex of his wrist and could be retracted with the release of it. Andrew had designed the blades himself along with the help of a master armorer from Braavos.

He had mostly used them for the means of enacting assassinations rather than for straight up combat. Consisting of a blade that can be discreetly extended or retracted from his bracer, the Hidden Blade's portability and concealability complemented his affinity for stealth and freerunning. It allowed him to eliminate a target while drawing virtually no attention to him, and the techniques developed for its use often ensure near instantaneous death.

He had killed many men with just the help of the blades. He had never seen a weapon more lethal than his hidden blades. There has been times where he had scaled the palaces of Braavos to take out murderers in their beds and there were times where he had opened the throats of monsters in the center of a market amidst a large crowd of people with none seeing him or his victim until the man dropped dead on the floor with the use of his hidden blades.

It has been long since he had used those deadly blades. He had not used them nor had planned to use them after he met Joy. It hurt to think about her. The wound was still so fresh to forget it soon. He doubted if he could ever forget it or feel love in his life again. All his loved ones from his life had left from this word, leaving him alone. His father had always said that, When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. For once Andrew found that even his father could be wrong at times. He was wrong in it. He had said that the pack survives and the lone wolf dies yet it was the pack which died when the hardest time came and he, the lone wolf somehow managed to live through all the hardships.

Andrew strapped the bracers on with the hidden blades facing the inside of his forearm and pulled on his jacket to conceal it under his sleeves. He left Frost on the table and went to the deck. They should reach White Harbor soon enough.

When he came up to the deck, the crew was busy, running around with ropes and other things in hand. "Snow," Captain Moreo called for him from the prow. "We're approaching White Harbor."

Andrew walked over to him and joined him at the prow. The bronze figurehead at the bow of the Fair Maiden sent up wings of salt spray as it cut the waves. He leaned his weight against the rail, grateful for its support.

As he listened to the slashing of the sea water, the thrum of the sail, and the rhythmic swish and creak of the oars, he thought back to his younger days, when he had seen a ship for the first time. He had been no more than five then, when he visited White Harbor with his father and mother. Lord Manderly had proudly shown them the fleet he had made for his father. The Lady of Stars was the first ship he had ever stepped on, a huge galley with a gilded head of a beautiful woman with amethysts for her eyes at the bow. It had been named for his mother. The Quiet Wolf, another huge galley that had been named for his father. He wondered what had happened to them. Has the Targaryens burned them with their dragons?

He had never known why the ships were made for then. That little boy had thought ships were used only to run around the seas. He had never known that they were war galleys built to keep their seas safe from the enemy fleet. If Rhaegar was any wise he would have taken the galleys and the fleet for himself. Even though Andrew knew nothing of the galleys when the time he saw them, he remembered them as huge and formidable vessels that could cast fear to the hearts of the hardest of the sailors.

Captain Moreo had told him some of the things he knew about Westeros, and his crew had known many rumors of that as well. The trade from the north had been stopped by the current lord of Winterfell, Jaehaerys Targaryen. Andrew had been shocked to hear about that first. It was foolish of Rhaegar to send his son to the north. When his father had ruled from Winterfell none from the south dared to enter the north through any means but for the king's oldest friends and the queen's family. Rhaegar and his family had stayed in their Red Keep and never even crossed past the borders of the Reach. Thrice the dragon king tried to invade the north and everytime his father had chased him back to his castle. He was shocked to hear that Rhaegar sent his son to the north but then it made sense. His cousin had brought a dragon with him to Winterfell to show fear in the minds of the people.

Fear, that was what the technique the Targaryens used to keep the people in check. But it was not the way he was raised. Eddard Stark had been the king in the north not the king of the north. His father had told him that it is the people of the north which comes before the place itself. The north is not just a place, it's the people, his father had told him as he was telling him some war story. His mother had given him the same lesson. "No king is made with a crown upon his head, Andrew," she had told him the day they had visited the Winter Town. "If you want to rule them, if you want their help, you have to make them love you." And no one in the north was much loved by the smallfolk than Queen Ashara.

Even his uncle Arthur had used the same method to subdue the Kingswood Brotherhood. Andrew had heard that story a hundred times before from his uncle. He paid the smallfolk for the food they had eaten, learned their grievances and helped them, expanded the grazing lands around their villages, won them the right to cut down a certain number of trees each and even got them hunting permits to hunt in the woods. The forest folk had looked to Toyne to defend them but his uncle had done more for them that the Brotherhood could ever hope to do and won them to his side. The story was one of his favorites that he remembered it even now.

"These are harsh times in Westeros," the captain told him. "There's been talk of war in the air always."

"Why would you risk your ship to get caught in the midst of a war then?" Andrew asked him.

"Damn me and my arrogance, Andrew," Moreo shook his head. "I got an offer no one can deny. But I hope to return back before anything happen, as soon as I finish my work."

"Trading?" asked Andrew, looking at the vastness of the sea.

"Aye," the stout man said. "Speaking of which, why do you want to go to Westeros?"

Andrew had many answers for that question but was not so sure as to which is the right one. Vengeance? Anger? Rage? Justice? Right? He could answer more but none felt correct. "I have an unfinished business left in Westeros," he answered at last.

"Hmm. If I were you I would finish my business and leave as soon as I can." The captain laughed. "These are not good times for trading, I must admit. You should've come here in its glory when the Stark king ruled from his throne. White Harbor was the center of the trade in the northern part of the world. The one who rules now has stopped every trade, doubled the taxes and blocked the ships."

"You knew King Eddard?"

Moreo gave Andrew a sharp look. "Aye. Him and his queen. I've seen the prince too. Though he was only a babe at the queen's teat when I saw him." He has seen me but can't recognize me? He would've probably seen a child wrapped in swaddling clothes in his mother's arms, there is no way he could recognize me. "I brought panes of glass from Myr to Winterfell once. Good people, both of them. Received me and my crew to the halls and feasted us amongst them."

It put a smile on his face to learn that they were not forgotten. Maybe the northern lords and people would remember them too.

"Here," Moreo said looking straight. "We're arriving." He turned to face his crew on the deck. "Prepare to shortern the sails, we're arriving."

It was the Seal Rock he saw first. The sea stone dominated the approaches to the outer harbor, a massive grey-green upthrust looming fifty feet above the waters. Its top was crowned with a circle of weathered stones, a ringfort of the First Men that had stood desolate and abandoned for hundreds of years. His father had fortified it when he became the Lord of Winterfell. Andrew could see scorpions and spitfires behind the standing stones, and crossbowmen peering between them. It must be cold up there, and wet. His father had said that seals could be seen basking on the broken rocks below. That's why it was named as the Seal Rock. But there were no seals to been seen now. There was smoke rising from Seal Rock as well. He wondered if the Targaryens had occupied it as well and the men were all Targaryen men.

The Fair Maiden stole into White Harbor on the evening tide, her dyed sails rippling with every gust of wind. The Fair Maiden was well known in White Harbor. For years she had plied a humble trade between there and the Free Cities. Andrew was relieved that no one would give a second thought on the ship or who it brought.

It was wise that he keep a low profile when he get into the city. He never knew if there was a Targaryen garrison left in the port. Knowing that how important White Harbor was to the north he strongly believed that there would be one. Until he knew how matters stood here, it was more prudent to play the common traveller.

White Harbor's walls of whitewashed stone rose before them, on the eastern shore where the White Knife plunged into the firth. The city's defenses had been strengthened under his father's command. There were not many differences from the last time he visited it with his parents. The jetty that divided the inner and outer harbors had been fortified with a long stone wall, thirty feet tall and almost a mile long, with towers every hundred yards.

Andrew never had any fond memories about this city. He was but a boy clutching at his mother's skirts the last time he came here. It was the only city he had ever been to. The little boy had awed at the size of it the first time he came to the city. His mother had told him that it was small compared to Oldtown and King's Landing but was clean and well-ordered. His mother had been to both Oldtown and King's Landing. Oldtown was his grandmother's home and King's Landing was where mother lived before she met father. All he remembered of White Harbor is that it had wide straight cobbled streets that made it easy for a man to find his way. And the houses were built of whitewashed stone, with steeply pitched roofs of dark grey slate.

The air was sharp and salty and smelled of sea, but he could smell the peat smoke drifting off Seal Rock too. He wondered if he should go up to the castle and reveal himself to Lord Wyman. Lord Wyman had always been warm to him and always laughing whenever he had seen him. What would he say to him? That he is his rightful king. The son of his king who came back from the dead. Would he even get a chance to speak? Or was Lord Wyman hosting a Targaryen army in his Merman's Court even now? It is wise to stay away from every castles until he reach Winterfell.

That jetty wall concealed the inner harbor, he saw, as the Fair Maiden was pulling down her sail. The outer harbor was larger, but the inner harbor was sheltered by the city wall on one side and the looming mass of the Wolf's Den on another, and the jetty wall as well. The whole northern fleet was stationed at White Harbor the last time Andrew came here. He wondered if the ships are concealed behind those walls, or have they already been put to torch.

Behind the city's thick white walls, the New Castle rose proud and pale upon its hill. Andrew could see the domed roof of the Sept of the Snows as well, surmounted by tall statues of the Seven. He knew his father's bannermen from his princeling lessons at Winterfell. His father would always tell him that a king should always know his men if he is to lead them one day. The Manderlys had brought the Faith north with them when they were driven from the Reach. White Harbor had its godswood too, a brooding tangle of root and branch and stone locked away behind the crumbling black walls of the Wolf's Den, an ancient fortress that served only as a prison now. But unlike the other castles of the north, the septons ruled here for the most part.

The merman of House Manderly was everywhere in evidence, flying from the towers of the New Castle, above the Seal Gate, and along the city walls. His hopes were undermined when he saw no sign of the direwolf of Stark. Luckily there were no dragons either.

The dockside wharves were swarming. A clutter of small boats were tied up along the fish market, off-loading their catches. He saw three river runners too, long lean boats built tough to brave the swift currents and rocky shoots of the White Knife. But it was his father's fleet he was searching for and he found nothing but a pair of carracks, drab and tattered, sauntering in the waves, a trading galley Storm Dancer, the cogs Brave Magister and Horn of Plenty, a galleas from Braavos marked by her purple hull and sails but there were no warships to be seen, not even the Quiet Wolf and the Lady of Stars. He had wished to see them there but they were not there.

The Fair Maid tied up to the end of a weathered wooden pier in the outer harbor, well away from inside. No doubt Moreo wished to leave soon. As her crew made her fast to the pilings and lowered a gangplank, her captain sauntered up to Andrew.

"This is where I leave you, Andrew Snow," Moreo said, extending Frost to him. "Good luck in your business."

Luck, Andrew thought, I might need it now. He wished for his father and mother and Joy. He wondered if they were with him now. He had seen them the day he met Joy, injured and halfdead. He sighed believing that they were with him.

"Thank you," Andrew told him as he took Frost in his hand.

A pair of customs men were clambering aboard as he went down the gangplank, but neither gave him so much as a glance. They were there to see the captain and inspect the hold; common seamen did not concern them. He kept his face down and moved through the crowd, blending in with them as much as he can. It only took a look for Slynt to tell him he was Eddard Stark's son, claiming as far as that he has his mother's hair. He didn't want to cause a scene like that again.

He made his way along the wharf and through the fish market. The Brave Magister was taking on some mead. The casks stood four high along the pier. Behind one stack he glimpsed three sailors throwing dice. Farther on the fishwives were crying the day's catch, and a boy was beating time on a drum as a shabby old bear danced in a circle for a ring of river runners. Two spearmen had been posted at the Seal Gate, with the badge of House Manderly upon their breasts, but they were too intent on flirting with a dockside whore to pay Andrew any mind. The gate was open, the portcullis raised. He joined the traffic passing through.

Inside was a cobbled square with a fountain at its center. A stone merman rose from its waters, twenty feet tall from tail to crown. His curly beard was green and white with lichen, and one of the prongs of his trident had broken off before Andrew had been born, yet somehow he still managed to impress as he had impressed him years before. Old Fishfoot was what the locals called him. Lord Wyman had told his father that the square was named for some dead lord, but Andrew cannot remember the name. Not that it mattered though, no one ever called it anything but Fishfoot Yard.

The Yard was teeming this afternoon. Beneath the arches of the peddler's colonnade the scribes and money changers had set up for business, along with a hedge wizard, an herb woman, and a very bad juggler. A man was selling apples from a barrow, and a woman was offering herring with chopped onions. Chickens and children were everywhere underfoot. The huge oak-and-iron doors of the Old Mint had been closed when Andrew had seen it the last time, but today they stood open. Inside he glimpsed hundreds of women, children, and old men, huddled on the floor on piles of furs. Some had little cookfires going.

Andrew stopped beneath the colonnade and traded a halfpenny for an apple. "Are people living in the Old Mint?" he asked the apple seller.

"Them as have no other place to live. Smallfolk from up the White Knife, most o' them. Hornwood's people too. With that dragons running loose, they all want to be inside the walls. I don't know what his lordship means to do with all o' them. Most turned up with no more'n the rags on their backs."

Andrew felt a hint of anger in him. They were his people and the Targaryens chase them off from their own place. "How do they eat?"

The apple seller shrugged. "Some beg. Some steal. Lots o' young girls taking up the trade, the way girls always do when it's all they got to sell. Any boy stands five feet tall can find a place in his lordship's barracks, long as he can hold a spear."

Atleast Lord Manderly was doing something. I need a horse, he thought. The sooner he could reach Winterfell, the sooner it would end.

"Where can I buy a horse?"

"Do you see the alley down Old Fishfoot's trident?" Andrew looked the way he pointed and nodded. "There's a stable down that alley past a brothel."

Andrew toosed the half eaten apple away and walked to the alley the man showed. He made his way around Old Fishfoot, past where a young girl was selling cups of fresh milk from her nanny goat.

He strolled across the yard and down a flight of steps. The stables stood well away from the city near to the exit. The floor was covered with straw and there were only the three horses to be seen. It was easy for Andrew to choose one among them, a white palfrey. The other two were in the worst conditions possible with one of them likely blind and the other likely to break a leg in a hard gallop.

When he gave a gold piece for the horse, the old man in the stables took it from his palm and bit it. "Hm. Real enough, I'd say," he said as Andrew took the reins in his hands.

He saw a little boy cornered by two big men when he came out. The boy was crying as he backed against a wall until there was no place to back up further. Andrew led the horse to him.

"Leave him alone," he told the men.

"Mind yer business, ya bastard," one of them said. "You've no reason to be 'ere."

"Oh, but I do." When he took Frost from its sheath the men ran away.

He walked to the boy and knelt beside him. He was clutching a pouch of coppers against his chest. "Th... Thank you," he whispered when he saw Andrew.

"Are you alright?" He helped the boy to get up from the ground.

"I am."

"What is your name?"

"Gared," the boy answered. He was still wary of him. Andrew could see that in the way he held his pouch. His pouch was not a heavy and bulky thing. It was thin as the boy himself. He took three gold dragons from his pouch and offered it to the boy. He looked at him with wide eyes.

"Go on, Gared," Andrew told him. "Give it to your mum."

"My mum is not here," he told him as he took the gold pieces from his hand. "She sent me away from Waterspring."

"Waterspring?" He knew the castle. It was more of a wooden keep than a castle located right where the White Knife broke a tributary to run through south of Winterfell, which began in the southeastern stretch of the Wolfswood and flows southeast to meet the White Knife west of the Sheapshead hills. His father would use Waterspring as a reserves for the fleet. Lord Payton Clearwater had been the Lord of Waterspring the last he knew.

"Yes," Gared told him. "My dada is there as well. They sent me away when the dark cloaks came."

The Targaryens. "What of Lord Clearwater?" Andrew asked him.

"He is dead," Gared told him. "Lady Waterspring and her children are held hostages."

"Didn't Lord Manderly do anything about it?" Waterspring owed its allegiance to White Harbor and to House Manderly as its overlord. It came under Lord Manderly to protect his vassals.

"Ser Wylis is their hostage as well," Gared said. "They have many ships blocking the river."

It was a sound plan. Taking all the ships and blocking the river with them, cutting down all the transport through the river and keeping the fleet in check. They could move easily to Winterfell through the river if it was needed which could bring in reinforcements too easily. That would do no good. If his plans to take back Winterfell failed the reinforcements would arrive more quickly than he could make a next move. He need to liberate Waterspring from the hands of the Targaryens and its people as well. Lady Clearwater and her children, Ser Wylis and all the others. Winterfell can wait for a few more days but the folks of Waterspring cannot.

He looked down at Gared. Somehow the boy reminded Andrew of himself. Chased away from parents and home, none should feel the pain of it. "Go home, Gared," Andrew told the boy. "You'll meet your mother and father tomorrow morning at Waterspring."

He got onto his horse and followed along the White Knife up north. Andrew was no stranger to horse riding. He has had many ridings with his parents and his uncles. He kept a fast pace never once slowing down. His palfrey proved itself worthy enough for a gold dragon. It kept on its pace never once stopping or lagging behind. He had hoped to reach Waterspring before nightfall and the sun was still half visible in the western sky when he finally reached it.

The entire northern fleet was docked at Waterspring all along the White Knife for a good distance. Andrew saw both the Quiet Wolf and the Lady of Stars in them. The huge war galleys were docked near the gates of the castle away from the other ships. It was a sweet sight. There were two guards by the gate, guarding the ships. Four men walked the walls, always circling in a way that each one faced one of the four sides for every rotation. There were no one else to be seen other than them.

He hoped that the castle won't host too big a garrison. Waterspring was a small castle. It wouldn't hold a big number of men. If he could infiltrate the castle and take the men down the northern fleet will be free and the reinforcements would be done for good.

The walls of Waterspring were no more than twenty feet high. It shouldn't be too hard to scale them. He took the grappling hook and threw it over the western wall when the guard was a few feet away from the side after a rotation. He tugged it thrice with all his strength to check if the grip was strong. When he was glad with the grip it had on the wall, Andrew climbed up by pulling the rope. He planted his legs firmly in the wood and climbed up. His boots never slipped in the wood and he moved up and up until he reached the top. He waited for the next guard to get to the place where he was. When the guard came near him, suspicious of the hook, Andrew flexed his wrist and thrust the extended blade in his throat. Death came for him swift and smooth and sudden. He pulled the guard from the wall and dropped him down. He heard the soft thud of the body crashing against the ground as he climbed onto the wall. In the cover of the night he hid behind the merlons and approached the next one and the next one and the next one until all four faced the four directions from the ground with their dead eyes.

There was a commotion going on in the yard when Andrew looked down from the walls. The chained big man with the merman sigil on his surcoat could only be Ser Wylis Manderly. Everyone in Waterspring had gathered in the yard and the remaining Targaryen guards as well. Seven they were, with one of them dressed in the rich garbs of a lordling. Andrew dropped down to the biggest building near the wall and crossed two more stout structures and leaped over to the roof of the armory. He had a good look at all of them from there. Ser Wylis was engaged in a heated argument with them. Andrew waited no more time as he jumped for the commander. He pushed the man down to the ground and buried the hidden blade right through the back of his neck.

Someone screamed from the crowd and Ser Wylis stumbled upon the ground losing his balance. Andrew unsheathed Frost and attacked the remaining guards before the regained from the shock. He slashed the throat of one and cracked the skull of another. The third guard raised his sword in time to block a swing at his head but he was not so fast to stop the next one which opened his chest. Andrew blocked the overhead swing of the next guard and drove Frost through his eye and left it there as the spearmen at the gate came against him at once. He kicked a spearman away and stepped aside from a thrust and caught the spear. He punched the man's nose and kicked him away from the spear to twirl the weapon in his arm so that the tip was faced at its previous owner and thrust it at his belly. The last guard had taken his sword out of his sheath from the ground but when he saw that the others were dead, he dropped it.

Andrew dropped the spear at his feet and left him there for the people to decide with his life. Ser Wylis looked up at him from the ground and the smallfolk all looked at him as if they had seen a ghost. Andrew pulled Frost away from the dead man and walked away.

"King." He heard someone whisper from the crowd.

"Eddard." Someone else said followed by a distant and uncertain, "Stark".

Let them talk, Andrew thought as he walked away. Let them know that the Starks are not gone.


	43. Chapter 43

_**Rhaegar**_

They supped alone. It has been weeks since Rhaegar shared a meal with his wife or a talk for that matter.

"The mutton is overcooked," he complained trying to start a conversation.

"Any displeasure I'm feeling has naught to do with mutton," Lyanna told him. She has always been a wild and willful woman but never has he seen her so distraught. The things that happened lately has changed a lot in her, Rhaegar could see it.

A lot of it has displeased the king himself the primary thing being the Dornish. He had settled Prince Oberyn and his lords in a cornerfort facing the city, as far from the Tyrells as he could put them without evicting them from the Red Keep entirely. It was not nearly far enough. Already there had been a brawl in a Flea Bottom pot-shop that left one Tyrell man-at-arms dead and two of Lord Gargalen's scalded, and an ugly confrontation in the yard when Mace Tyrell's wizened little mother called Ellaria Sand "the serpent's whore." Every time he chanced to see Oberyn Martell the prince asked when the justice would be served. Overcooked mutton was the least of Rhaegar's troubles, but he saw no point in burdening his wife with any of that. Lyanna had enough griefs and displeasures of her own.

"Are you alright?" he asked her softly, placing his palm on her hand. "Aegon told me that you didn't eat for days."

"I'm alright, your grace," was her only reply.

"It's okay, Lya, you can tell it to me."

She looked at her plate in silence. Rhaegar could see that something was different about her. He knew that it started with Viserys' untimely and mysterious death and the assassination attempt on him in Braavos did not help either. He wondered what happened to Slynt and his men. There was nothing to be heard from them after they had left for Braavos. He had ordered the man to finish his work and send the word of it at once but there was nothing from him. Even Varys has nothing to say about them. Rhaegar hoped that the idiot would finish it soon enough. The sooner the loose ends are tied up he could turn his concerns to Robert and Lord Jon.

The supper ended in a strained silence. He did not want to trouble her more. If she did not want to talk so be it once she sees Aegon's marriage everything will return to normal. Afterward, as the servants were removing the cups and platters, Lyanna asked Rhaegar for leave to visit the godswood.

"As you wish." He had become accustomed to his wife's nightly devotions. Rhaegar found all this piety excessive, if truth be told, but if she wants the help of the gods she is welcome to it. "Perhaps someday I could even accompany you," he said, trying to be pleasant.

The sound of rustling leaves might be a pleasant change from some septon droning on about the seven aspects of grace. Rhaegar waved her off. "Dress warmly, my lady, the wind is brisk out there." He was tempted to ask what she prayed for, but he knew he would only get silence as a reply. It's better to leave her to her ways.

He went back to work after she left, trying to track some of the things he would want to do before his son's marriage. It was a tiresome job to do everything by himself. Lyanna was not likely to plan and prepare them for the upcoming marriage. He would want get some golden dragons through the labyrinth of Littlefinger's ledgers. Petyr Baelish does not believes in letting gold sit about and grow dusty. It was all very well to talk of breeding dragons instead of locking them up in the treasury, but some of these late ventures smelled worse than week-old fish. The royal coffers was filled and was in the best shape but with a war looming in the horizon it is wise to spend each pieces wisely.

When his head ached with the sight of the accounts he summoned for his small council. Jon Connington was the first one to arrive other than Ser Gerold. Grand Maester Pylos came in quick in his feet with some scrolls and books. Varys came quiet as a shadow, powered in lavender and clothed in purple robes. Mace Tyrell looked as if he was annoyed to be kept away from his bed. Baelish came in stroking his pointed beard with a sly smile which Rhaegar mistrusted at every turn. Aurane Waters was the last one to come in, the replacement to the king's brother. Rhaegar was wary of his smug face but the Bastard of Driftmark proved himself useful.

"My lords," Rhaegar told them when they sat. "Sorry to call all of you in such a late hour but there are matters to be discussed. Any word from the Stormlands or the Vale?"

"Nothing as of important, your grace," Varys said so softly that anyone would have thought he whispered. "Robert Baratheon has returned to Storm's End and Jon Arryn to the Vale. With this newfound marriage with Gendry Baratheon and Alyssa Arryn there's been whispers that they are preparing for war."

First Stark and now his friends. Rhaegar thought of Eddard Stark and his rebellion which resulted in the loss of half his kingdom. This time though it will destroy his entire kingdom. He wondered if he should've made an alliance with his foes as well. Robert has a daughter, a lovely maid, the fairest of them all. The girl was betrothed to Stark's son. Now that he is gone Rhaegar could ask her hand in a marriage for a southern prince in exchange of the northern prince she was promised to. Jaehaerys was still available and Argella would still rule the north, only, she will be a princess and not the Queen. The offer was sound and it is a good match for either of them but Rhaegar knew that Robert would likely spit in his face rather than to offer his daughter's hand in marriage for his son.

"So long as they are away from each other it is good for us," Mace Tyrell said with all the confidence of a proven warrior who has won a hundred wars. The bloody Tyrell was likely to run away the moment he sees foes in the field the same way he ran away from Ned Stark. Rhaegar remembered that day as if it happened only yesterday. Tyrell had ran back the moment the wolves came howling through the night. It had left his left flank vulnerable which was then smashed by the King in the North himself. If it wasn't for Lord Randyll Tarly it would've been a red butchery in the Wolfswood that day.

"For a man who don't know what happens in his own kingdom everything is good," Aurane Waters chuckled.

"What did you say?" Mace Tyrell grew red and puffy with anger.

"The truth," Aurane said with a chuckle. "One hears strange things from Oldtown. News about magic and other dark things. Do you know what Lord Leyton Hightower is doing?"

Rhaegar himself was confused of all the thoughts regarding Hightower. The visions he saw in Bezzaro's fire still occupied his mind. To have open enemies in the field is one thing but to have traitors in his own household is entirely different. It would be a disaster.

"Lord Leyton is a loyal lord and my own goodfather," Tyrell argued.

"So he was to Lord Dayne," Aurane told him. "And King Eddard was married to his granddaughter. He has locked himself in his High Tower for eight years. Right from the time his granddaughter and her family was killed. That doesn't sound like a coincidence to me."

Mace Tyrell gaped like a puff fish outside of the water. When he didn't have any answer all the eyes turned to Ser Gerold.

"Ser Gerold, do you know what Lord Leyton is doing?" Rhaegar asked the Lord Commander of his Kingsguard.

Ser Gerold had a firm look about him. "I don't, your grace," he said. "If I ever hear anything, I'll make sure that your grace hears it."

"If I may, your grace," Varys spoke again, "I bring some other tidings as well. Important ones from the north."

The north. Nothing from the north brought good news to the king's ears for many years. He wished this time it would change with his son in Winterfell.

Rhaegar turned at once to Varys. "You have reports?"

The eunuch drew a parchment from his sleeve. "There's been trouble in the north." He said quietly. "An outlaw band is troubling our lands and people in the way of their Outlaw King. The Wolfswood Brotherhood, they are called and they are harassing our lines and castles. People are disappearing every day and they are found days after hanging from the trees."

Another band of outlaws in the woods. Rhaegar thought about the Kingswood Brotherhood which once terrorised his father's rule. His father had tasked Arthur Dayne to deal with them and the Sword of the Morning had brought them to an end where most had failed before him. Alas, he did not have Arthur to deal with these new outlaws now. "Darkfang is in the north," he said. "Send word for him to deal with them."

"Our brave Ser Darkfang has taken it upon himself and left Waterspring to hunt them down. But there has been nothing heard from him."

"Waterspring," Mace Tyrell vented his obvious displeasure, "the northern fleet is anchored there. What madness led Ser Derek to leave it unguarded?"

He is a dozen times wiser than you, you fat fool. As far as Waterspring stands the fleet will make no threat. Derek held Manderly's son as his hostage. As far as he stays there Lord Wyman will never send any of his forces to Waterspring. Not even these small attacks of the outlaws could give courage to the northmen to rise against a dragon.

"Send a raven to Lord Tywin," Rhaegar told them. "Ask him to send Ser Gregor Clegane to deal with this rogue threat."

"You grace," Jon said. "Is it wise? Wouldn't it be good to deal with this ourselves. Lord Tywin is Robert Baratheon's goodfather and Ser Gregor is-"

"Is the man I knighted," Rhaegar finished before him. "And I mean to see if Lord Tywin is being loyal to his king. He is sworn to me as the others and hence he is in right to obey my command. I want Lord Tywin away from his mad dog as far as I can get him. Without the Mountain he will not take any quick decisions."

And he meant to mine the Mountain for every last nugget of ore before turning him over to Dornish justice. It would serve to quiet Oberyn. Oberyn knows nothing of what happened that day. He has heard tales. Stable gossip and kitchen calumnies. He has no crumb of proof. No one knows the truth except for Bezzaro and Jaime Lannister. Ser Jaime took the secret with him to his grave and Bezzaro is certainly not about to confess to him. Denying the promised justice might offend the Martells and giving them Gregor Clegane would appease the Martells as well as take Lord Tywin's mad dog away from him.

It is justice in a way too. It was the Mountain who brought them to him that day.

Lord Tywin had come late to his cause. It was expected of him to demonstrate his loyalty. When he sent the Mountain in his place to act in his stead King's Landing no one could say that the Old Lion supported him rather than his father. Rhaegar had always suspected it was done to make his daughter Cersei as his queen. He would casually tell Oberyn that Gregor murdered Elia and the children in hope of gaining favor from him. And if Oberyn wants to chase from where the orders came, he can go chasing Lord Tywin. They can fight and bleed and die for all they want. As far as he is concerned it meant less enemies.

Prince Oberyn's presence here was unfortunate. Doran Martell was a cautious man, a reasoned man, subtle, deliberate, even indolent to a degree. He was a man who weighs the consequences of every word and every action. Rhaegar would have had a good time treating with him. But Oberyn has always been half-mad. It is wise to quiet him first before something big happens.

"We might move on to the wedding," Rhaegar said.

Jon spoke of the preparations being made at the Great Sept of Baelor. They would want to feed a thousand in the throne room, but many more outside in the yards. The outer and middle wards would be tented in silk, with tables of food and casks of ale for all those who could not be accommodated within the hall.

"Your Grace," said Grand Maester Pylos, "in regard to the number of guests... we have had a raven from Sunspear. Three hundred more Dornishmen are riding toward King's Landing as we speak, and hope to arrive before the wedding. They are coming to attend their princess' wedding."

"How do they come?" asked Mace Tyrell gruffly. "They have not asked leave to cross my lands." His thick neck had turned a dark red, Rhaegar noted. Dornishmen and Highgardeners had never had great love for one another; over the centuries, they had fought border wars beyond count, and raided back and forth across mountains and marches even when at peace. The enmity had waned a bit after Dorne had become part of the Seven Kingdoms... until Oberyn had crippled the young heir of Highgarden in a tourney. This could be ticklish, the king thought. Oberyn already has a good number of men with him in King's Landing. What is he hoping to achieve by bringing in more men.

"When my sister is wed to your son and Aegon to Princess Arianne, we shall all be one great House," Rhaegar reminded Mace Tyrell. "The enmities of the past should remain there, would you not agree, my lord?"

"I have no quarrel with Doran Martell," insisted Lord Tyrell, though his tone was more than a little grudging. "If they wishes to cross the Reach in peace, he need only ask my leave."

Small chance of that, thought Rhaegar. Oberyn had climbed the Boneway, turn east near Summerhall, and come up the kingsroad and his men would do the same. With a war already brewing Rhaegar did not want to see his noble allies at each others' throats.

"If that is all," Rhaegar said and his council members got up at once. "We'll end it here. Maester send a raven to Winterfell and ask my son to come to King's Landing as soon as this trouble with outlaws is over."

When they left the king mused how fine everything was going on. Only one thing can make this sweeter all the more, a letter from Janos with the news of a certain death.


	44. Chapter 44

_**Andrew**_

The ridge slanted sharply from the earth, a long fold of stone and soil shaped like a claw. Trees clung to its lower slopes, pines and hawthorn and ash, but higher up the ground was bare, the ridgeline stark against the cloudy night sky.

He ran up back to the mountains, his paws sunk deep in a drift of snow as he stood upon the edge of a great precipice. Before him the Wolfswood opened up into a vast and cold empire of trees. The smell of earth and trees was heavy in his nose. He could make out the scents of pine needles and acorns and half a dozen other earthy scents. Had his sense of scent always been this good?

He could feel the high stone calling him. Up he went, loping easy at first, then faster and higher, his strong legs eating up the incline. It felt different now than when he ran with two legs. He had been fast then, climbing and leaping and vaulting across buildings, running along narrow beams and above sloping stone roofs but now he was faster. A silent wind passed through the branches as he raced by, making the leaves rustle in a sweet melody. He could hear the wind sighing up amongst the leaves, the squirrels chittering to one another, even the sound a pinecone made as it tumbled to the forest floor. The smells were a song around him, a song that filled the good green world.

Gravel flew from beneath his paws as he gained the last few feet to stand upon the crest. The moon hung above the tall pines pale and round, and below him the trees and hills went on and on as far as he could see or smell.

He was strong and swift and fierce, quiet as a ghost and quick as a lightning bolt, and all that lived in the good green world went in fear of him.

Far below, at the base of the woods, something moved amongst the trees. A flash of grey, quick-glimpsed and gone again, but it was enough to make his ears prick up. Down there beside a swift green brook, another form slipped by, running. Wolves, he knew. His little cousins, chasing down some prey. Now he could see more of them, shadows on fleet grey paws. A pack.

He had a pack as well, once. He felt a deep ache of emptiness, a sense of incompleteness. He sat on his haunches and lifted his head to the darkening sky, and his cry echoed through the forest, a long lonely mournful sound. As it died away, he pricked up his ears, listening for an answer, but the only sound was the sigh of blowing snow.

These woods belonged to him, the snowy slopes and stony hills, the great green pines and the golden leaf oaks, the rushing streams and blue lakes fringed with fingers of white frost. A grey stone hall had been his home once when he was with other half, the man half but the forest is his home now.

The wind shifted suddenly.

Deer, and fear, and blood. The scent of prey woke the hunger in him. He sniffed the air again, turning, and then he was off, bounding along the ridgetop with jaws half-parted. The far side of the ridge was steeper than the one he'd come up, but he flew surefoot over stones and roots and rotting leaves, down the slope and through the trees, long strides eating up the ground. The scent pulled him onward, ever faster.

The woods were darkening all about him and then he heard the sound.

Stark

The call came from behind him, softer than a whisper, but strong too. Can a shout be silent? He turned his head, searching for the voice, for a glimpse of the human intruder, but there was nothing, only...

A weirwood.

It seemed to sprout from solid rock, its pale roots twisting up forming a vast wide net of weirwood roots. The tree was big compared to other weirwoods he had seen, bigger than the one in Winterfell and Starfall, and it was growing still as he watched, its limbs thickening as they reached for the sky. Wary, he circled the smooth white trunk until he came to the face. A red eye looked at him. A white root was in the place where the other eye should have been.

He sniffed at the bark, smelled wolf and tree and man, but behind that there were other scents, the rich brown smell of warm earth and the hard grey smell of stone and something else, something terrible. Death, he knew. He was smelling death. He cringed back, his hair bristling, and bared his fangs.

The old powers are waking, the weirwood said. The giants have woken up from the depths of earth and the songs of wargs fill the cold air. The old powers are waking. Dead men walk and the trees have eyes again. Remember who you are. Remember.

Suddenly he was surrounded by darkness. He heard a woman's scream in the distance.

Andrew opened his eyes at once, sitting up.

Another dream, Andrew thought feebly. It felt as if he would never get free of them. And coming to Westeros had only made it worse. This one was much different than the others he had. He was a wolf in his dream and there was a weirwood with some man's face. It had said something about giants and wargs and trees.

Warg? Did he mean me? Andrew wondered. Skinchangers and wargs belonged in Old Nan's stories, not in the world he had lived in all his life. So were direwolves and dragons yet they roamed around the world and Andrew himself had seen a direwolf. He had a pup when he was a boy at Winterfell. A quiet pup with fur the color of pure snow and eyes the color of blood. Andrew had nursed the pup back to its health with the help of his mother after the pup's mother had died saving him and his mother. He had named it Ghost for the white wolf had never made any sound. He weaned back to health quite soon and used to follow him wherever he went.

A part of him yearned to see the wolf. The boy in him wished that the wolf was his, but something else said that the Targaryens would have killed it the moment Winterfell fell.

And the tree told him to remember, to remember who he was. He didn't know what he meant by that. His mother had said the same to him once, the day she sacrificed herself to save him. Who am I? Andrew wondered. He is not a prince now, not an assassin or an innkeep, he never knew who he is anymore. What did his mother tell him? You're Andrew Stark, hailed from the line of Gods and Kings. He had forgotten that once but he would never forget that again.

From the way the light had shifted, Andrew judged that he had been asleep for four or five hours. The woods and wolves were gone. Andrew was back again, down in the damp vault of some ancient watchtower that must have been abandoned thousands of years before. It wasn't much of a tower now. Even the tumbled stones were so overgrown with moss and ivy that you could hardly see them until you were right on top of them.

The Sword of the Morning still hung in the south, the bright white star in its hilt blazing like a diamond in the dawn. The fire he had put up last night had died out. Andrew stroked the fire back and put the remaining catch of the last night over the fire, two rabbits and a pair of small silvery trouts.

The Tower was a good place for him. No villages near, the woods are full of game, there's fish in the streams and lakes and rabbits in the woods and no one is ever going to find him there. It served best to stay hidden until he reached Winterfell and the tower was near the castle but well surrounded by trees.

There are people in the woods, foresters, hunters and wood cutters but none troubled him here though. The Glovers are mostly on the other end of the wolfswood, but they used Wolfswood for hunting and timber and other things. Then there are Wulls in west of the mountains along the Bay of Ice, Harclays back in the edge of the hills, and Knotts and Liddles and Norreys and even some Flints up there in the high places all along the mountains. His father's mother's mother had been a Flint of the mountains. Once they had gone up the mountains to visit her family.

Standing from a peak of the mountains, his father picked him up in his arms and showed the wide vast lands of the north. "Look at that, Andrew," he had said, showing him around. "Home. Not just Winterfell, whatever path you take from here, north, south, east or west every road leads to home."

When his father had held him in his hands, Andrew had felt all of it as home but without him and mother it didn't feel like home.

Perhaps the mountain clans could be of help. His great grandfather had married a Flint and they are family to him. Theo Wull was one of his father's friends. Buckets, they used to call him and he was always friendly. Buckets was their sigil, Andrew knew. Three brown buckets on a blue field, with a border of white and grey checks. Lord Wull came to Winterfell once, to do his fealty and talk with his Father. And there's the Knott and the Norrey and the Liddle too. All of them were trusted men of his father. Trusted men of your father, he thought then, not you.

Even the Boltons used to roam the woods freely. Bolton hunters and other troubles. So far Andrew had managed to stay hidden away from everyone. No one knew he was there and if they did they never bothered him. Only once did he encounter any of the northern people in the woods, when a sudden burst of freezing rain sent him looking for shelter. It was then Andrew had found the tower there. When he entered it, Andrew saw the orange glow of fire farther back and realized he was not alone. "Come in and warm yourself," a man's voice called out. "There's stone enough to keep the rain off both our heads."

He offered him oatcakes and blood sausage and a swallow of ale from a skin he carried, but never his name; nor did he ask theirs. Andrew figured him for a Liddle. The clasp that fastened his squirrelskin cloak was gold and bronze and wrought in the shape of a pinecone, and the Liddles bore pinecones on the white half of their green-and-white shields.

The Liddle took out a knife and whittled at a stick. "When there was a Stark in Winterfell, a maiden girl could walk the kingsroad in her name-day gown and still go unmolested, and travelers could find fire, bread, and salt at many an inn and holdfast. But the nights are colder now, and doors are closed. There's dragons in the wolfswood, and flayed men ride the kingsroad asking after strangers."

That was a surprise for Andrew. "Boltons?" he asked the Liddle.

"The Bastard's boys, aye. The bastard is trying to prove himself to his father to be his trueborn heir by trying to hunt the brotherhood. And I heard some talks of a certain dead man freeing an entire castle." He looked at Andrew and at Frost along his back. "As to Winterfell," the man went on, "it's not a place that anyone would be going. The Dragon Prince rules there. Hardly does a good word ever come out of the castle." He poked at the fire with his stick. "It was different when there was a Stark in Winterfell. But the wolf king's dead with his queen and pup, and all that's left us is the ghosts."

"The wolves will come again," Andrew said solemnly.

"And how would you be knowing, boy?"

"Just a feeling."

"I never knew the king myself," the man said, "but he was a good man, everyone knows it. All that's left of him are some good words and his ghost."

It warmed his heart to know that his father and mother are remembered in the north. I am left of him, Andrew wanted to tell him. I am his son, his own blood. The Starks are not dead, I'm here. Me, Andrew Stark, I'm still here.

They spent that night together in the tower, for the rain did not let up till well past dark. When the fire had burned down to embers, Andrew let himself to sleep.

When he woke the next morning, the fire had gone out and the Liddle was gone, but he'd left a sausage for him, and four oatcakes folded up neatly in a green and white cloth. Two of the cakes had pinenuts baked in them and two had blackberries. Andrew ate one of each, and still did not know which sort he liked the best. When the Starks are back in Winterfell again, he told himself, he'd send for the Liddles and pay them back a hundredfold for every nut and berry they fed him with.

He left the tower by noon when the sun came breaking through the clouds. Andrew knew that he was only a day's ride away from Winterfell. He had seen and known enough about the castle and now the only thing remained was to take it back.

He chewed of the cooked rabbit strip as he rode. The meat was not cooked perfectly but it served enough.

The last ray of sun vanished behind the top of the trees. Twilight filled the woods. It seemed to grow colder almost at once. Andrew slowed his palfrey to a walk. By then both he and the horse were damp with sweat. He dismounted, shivering, tugging his jacket close. A bank of melting snow lay under the trees, bright in the twilight, water trickling off to form small shallow pools. Andrew went to one knee and brought his hands together, cupping the runoff between his fingers. The snowmelt was icy cold. He drank, and splashed some on his face, until his cheeks tingled.

The horse was well lathered, so Andrew tied her to a nearby tree and decided to walk the rest of the way.

Off in the trees, the distant scream of some frightened animal made him look up. Some predator had found some prey. Andrew looked around, searching for any predator be it man or beast. The woods stayed silent and the only sound was a rush of wings behind him as an owl took flight.

He was away from his horse when he heard the sounds: horses, and coming towards Winterfell from the north. It only meant one thing, men from Winterfell. He thought to run back to his palfrey. Could he outrun them? No, they were too close, they'd hear him for a certainty, and will catch him before he reach his mount.

He moved behind a thick stand of grey-green sentinels. He listened to the sound of hooves growing steadily louder as they trotted briskly down the kingsroad. From the sound, there were five or six of them at the least. Their voices drifted through the trees.

"Look at here." The horses surrounded him. Six they were and each rider with the black and red cloaks.

"Who are you?" One of them asked. "What are you doing here?"

All of them were mounted. It was not easy to fight multiple mounted men at once. "I'm a humble merchant from the sea, men," Andrew told them. "I mean no harm."

"Merchant from the sea?" the one behind him took Frost from him and threw it to the first one. "What business does a seafarer has in the land? What kind of humble merchant wears a sword."

The one who held Frost unsheathed the blade and held it in his hand. The blue blade glinted in the twilight.

"A fine sword," he said and touched it. He touched the blade and took his hand back as if he had touched fire. "Shit, it's freezing." He threw Frost down and drew his own sword from the sheath and the sounds of five other swords scraping against the scabbard echoed it.

"You're from the Brotherhood, aren't you?"

Andrew looked at all of them surrounding him. He still had his hidden blades on but he could only take out three of them before they could strike back. And if they did he could not fight them in an open combat with his hidden blades. Without Frost he could not hope to defeat three mounted men.

It is wise to play the innocent now. Andrew raised his arms above his head. "I'm not who you think me to be," he told them. "I'm just a merchant and that sword is for Lord Bolton. I was ordered to get it from an armorer in volantis. I'm just doing my job."

"Gods be good," another voice broke in. "I know you. Seven hells! You're alive. How is that even possible? You're supposed to be dead."

"What is it?"

"It's Stark's son. It's him"

All the eyes were on him again, this time with a complete look of surprise.

"He's dead. You've just gone mad with fear of Eddard Stark's ghost."

"I know a face when I see one," he pointed his finger at his face, "and I've seen it before I tell you."

"Aye," another croaked a laugh. "Next time tell me that the ghost of the King in the North is here." They all laughed at that.

"Quiet," the one who threw Frost down said. "We'll bring him to the Prince and let him decide what must be done to him."

It was then he knew that this was going to end ugly. He was about to drive his hidden blade to the one near him when he saw the movement out of the corner of his eye.

He glimpsed a pale shadow moving through the trees. Leaves rustled, and the shadow came bounding out of the dark, so suddenly that all the horses startled and gave a whinny.

The white shadow leapt. Man and wolf went down together with only the man's scream and no snarl or growl of the wolf, rolling, smashing into the ground. Two of the horses reared and fell down before their riders could regain control of them, trapping both the men under them. Andrew flexed his wrist and drove the hidden blade to the knee of the man near him and then his throat in quick succession. Of the remaining two, one came for him and the other went for the wolf.

Andrew ducked and rolled through the charge of the man and picked up Frost from the ground. When the rider wheeled his horse around and came for the next pass, he was ready. He leapt away from the sword and slashed Frost at the rider's throat. The horse ran for a distance and stopped as the rider slowly fell from the saddle to the ground with a lazy thud.

The direwolf was already on the other man, bearing him down. He fell back on the snow with a lazy thud and a shout, flailing wildly with his sword. The direwolf darted in after him, and the white snow turned red where he had fallen.

The sixth man removed himself from below his horse and ran from the carnage . . . but not far. As he went scrambling up towards the trees, the white wolf bounded after the running man, hamstringing him with a single snap of his teeth, and going for the throat as the screaming man went quiet.

And then there was no one left but the wolf and him. His white muzzle was wet and red, but his eyes burned a bright red, the color of blood which was spilt all around.

Andrew breathing grew harder and his heart beat faster. The wolf bounded towards him slowly. "Ghost?" He turned toward the wolf, and dropped his sword. The direwolf came, padding silently out of the green dusk, the breath coming warm and white from his open jaws. The direwolf broke into a run. He was a lot bigger than he had been when he last saw him as a pup, and the only sound he made was the soft crunch of dead leaves beneath his paws. He never makes a sound, Andrew remembered. Silent as a ghost he came and Andrew waited for him wondering whether he should be afraid or happy about seeing him. When he reached Andrew he leapt, and they wrestled amidst brown grass and long shadows as the stars came out above them. "You are alive and you remember me," Andrew said when Ghost stopped worrying at his forearm. The direwolf had no answer, but he licked Andrew's face with a tongue like a wet rasp, and his eyes caught the last light and shone like two great red suns.

He had never thought to feel happiness in his life after Joy died but he was more than happy to see this old friend of his. "Ghost. I missed you, pal."


	45. Chapter 45

When he heard the order, Will packed up his saddle and got ready for another ranging into the forest beyond the Wall.

"They are more close to us than I would've liked," Lord Commander Mormont told them. "More than once our men spotted them so close to the Wall that it does not feel right."

"Right," cried Mormont's raven. "Right, right, right."

The Old Bear extended some corn in his palm and the bird started to eat from his hand. "I fear that they are trying to climb the Wall and get into the realm. We can't let them pass. Go, chase them into those dark woods. Find our foes and kill them if need be. The First Ranger himself picked you for this ranging. All of you are skilled with a blade and good men, the brothers of the Night's Watch. Now go and do your duty to the realm."

Ser Waymar touched the hilt of his longsword. "I'll not fail you, my lord."

"Good," Mormont said. "Will and Gared will be with you. Both are seasoned rangers."

The lordling gave a disinterested look at Will and Gared. Will did not like it one bit but Ser Waymar was still his brother and his commander in his ranging. It was his first command and Royce was doubtlessly proud at that.

It was no easy thing to go ranging into the wild, because the chances were good that they might never return. The haunted forest had swallowed up many seasoned men without a trace. Still, they all were eager for the duty, even the new Ser Waymar Royce.

They led their horses through the cold tunnel under the Wall. Gared went first with a torch in hand. Then it was young Ser Waymar and Will came last with another torch in his hand. When they emerged on the other side of the tunnel the world changed before them. The familiarity of warmth and safety on the other side of Wall was gone and it was replaced with the cold, dark dangerous forest which lay ahead of them.

They rode hard and fast for the entire day, north and northwest and then north again, farther and farther from the Wall, hard on the track of a band of wildling raiders. The cold was rising for the every foot they moved away from the Wall. By evening it turned to be the worst of it. A cold wind was blowing out of the north, and it made the trees rustle like living things. All day, Will had felt as though something was watching him, something cold and implacable that loved him not. Gared had felt it too. Will wanted nothing so much as to ride hellbent for the safety of the Wall, but that was not a feeling to share with your commander.

Especially not a commander like this one.

Ser Waymar Royce was the youngest son of an ancient noble house with too many heirs. He was a handsome youth of twenty, graceful and slender as a knife. Mounted on his huge black destrier, the knight towered above Will and Gared on their smaller garrons. He wore black leather boots, black woolen pants, black moleskin gloves, and a fine supple coat of gleaming black ringmail over layers of black wool and boiled leather. Ser Waymar had been a Sworn Brother of the Night's Watch for less than half a year, but no one could say he had not prepared for his vocation. At least in so far as his wardrobe was concerned.

When there was no sight of the wildlings for the entire day, his commander split the group and sent them hunting for the wildling in different directions, all alone, so that they could cover more ground. They had agreed to join again by nightfall in the base of the ironwood tree from where they split.

He was only half a league away from the tree when he saw the smoke coming from behind a broken tree.

Will pulled his garron over beneath an ancient gnarled ironwood and dismounted.

It was best to go rest of the way on foot. That way he could stay unseen and unheard by the wildlings. Will had been a hunter before he joined the Night's Watch. Well, a poacher in truth. Mallister freeriders had caught him red-handed in the Mallisters' own woods, skinning one of the Mallisters' own bucks, and it had been a choice of putting on the black or losing a hand. No one could move through the woods as silent as Will, and it had not taken the black brothers long to discover his talent.

Will threaded his way through a thicket, then started up the slope to the low ridge where he had found his vantage point under a sentinel tree. Under the thin crust of snow, the ground was damp and muddy, slick footing, with rocks and hidden roots to trip you up. Will made no sound as he climbed.

His heart leapt in fear as he reached the top. Moonlight shone down on the clearing, the ashes of the fire pit, fresh fallen snow covered the great rock, the little half-frozen stream... And corpses or what was left of them. Whoever did this thing was stone of heart. The dead bodies were all ripped and the parts of their bodies were arranged in a weird pattern.

Will got back up in fear and turned to face a child impaled to a tree, dead and frozen. He rushed back to his horse and raced back to the tree to meet his brothers. Luckily, they were already back when he came back.

Will told his brothers of what he saw. They never interrupted him and heard the entire thing in silence.

" What do you expect?" Ser Waymar told him when he was finished. "They're savages. One lot steal a goat from another lot and before you know it they're ripping each other to pieces."

"I've never seen Wildlings do a thing like this," Will said. "I've never seen a thing like this, not ever in my life."

"How close did you get?" Royce asked him.

"Close as any man could."

"We should head back to the Wall," Gared urged as the woods began to grow dark around them.

"Do the dead frighten you?" Ser Waymar Royce asked with just the hint of a smile.

Gared did not rise to the bait. He had seen the lordlings come and go. "Our orders were to track the Wildlings. We tracked them," he said. "They won't trouble us no more."

"You don't think they'll ask us how they died?" the commander said. "Get back on your horse."

Will could see the tightness around Gared's mouth, the barely suppressed anger in his eyes under the thick black hood of his cloak. Gared had spent many years in the Night's Watch, and he was not accustomed to being made light of. Yet it was more than that. Under the wounded pride, Will could sense something else in the older man. You could taste it; a nervous tension that came perilous close to fear.

Will shared his unease. He had been four years on the Wall. The first time he had been sent beyond, all the old stories had come rushing back, and his bowels had turned to water. He had laughed about it afterward. He was a veteran of a hundred rangings by now, and the endless dark wilderness the southron called the Haunted Forest had no more terrors for him.

Until tonight. Something was different tonight. There was an edge to this darkness that made his hackles rise.

"Whatever did this to them could do the same to us," Will tried to argue.

The lordling seemed not to hear him. He studied the deepening twilight in that half-bored, half-distracted way he had. Will had ridden with the knight long enough to understand that it was best not to interrupt him when he looked like that.

The young knight turned back to his grizzled man-at-arms. Frost fallen leaves whispered past them, and Royce's destrier moved restlessly. "What do you think might have killed these men, Gared?" Ser Waymar asked casually. He adjusted the drape of his long sable cloak.

"It was the cold," Gared said with iron certainty. "I saw men freeze last winter, and the one before, when I was half a boy. Everyone talks about snows forty foot deep, and how the ice wind comes howling out of the north, but the real enemy is the cold. It steals up on you quieter than Will, and at first you shiver and your teeth chatter and you stamp your feet and dream of mulled wine and nice hot fires. It burns, it does. Nothing burns like the cold. But only for a while. Then it gets inside you and starts to fill you up, and after a while you don't have the strength to fight it. It's easier just to sit down or go to sleep. They say you don't feel any pain toward the end. First you go weak and drowsy, and everything starts to fade, and then it's like sinking into a sea of warm milk. Peaceful, like."

"Such eloquence, Gared," Ser Waymar observed. "I never suspected you had it in you."

"Have you drawn any watches this past week, Will?"

"Yes, m'lord," There never was a week when he did not draw a dozen bloody watches. What was the man driving at?

"And how did you find the Wall?"

"Weeping," Will said, frowning. He saw it clear enough, now that the lordling had pointed it out. "They couldn't have froze. Not if the Wall was weeping. It wasn't cold enough."

Royce nodded. "Bright lad. We've had a few light frosts this past week, and a quick flurry of snow now and then, but surely no cold fierce enough to kill grown men. Men clad in fur and leather, let me remind you, with shelter near at hand, and the means of making fire." The knight's smile was cocksure. "Will, lead us there. I would see these dead men for myself."

And then there was nothing to be done for it. The order had been given, and honour bound them to obey.

Will went in front, his shaggy little garron picking the way carefully through the undergrowth. A light snow had fallen the night before, and there were stones and roots and hidden sinks lying just under its crust, waiting for the careless and the unwary. Ser Waymar Royce came next, his great black destrier snorting impatiently. The warhorse was the wrong mount for ranging, but try and tell that to the lordling. Gared brought up the rear. The old man-at-arms muttered to himself as he rode.

Twilight deepened. The cloudless sky turned a deep purple, the colour of an old bruise, then faded to black. The stars began to come out. A half-moon rose. Will was grateful for the light.

Somewhere off in the wood a wolf howled.

Will led his garron to the ironwood and dismounted. "It's best to walk from here, m'lord. It's just over that ridge."

Royce slid gracefully from his saddle. He tied the destrier securely to a low-hanging limb, well away from the other horses, and drew his longsword from its sheath. Jewels glittered in its hilt, and the moonlight ran down the shining steel. It was a splendid weapon, castle-forged, and new-made from the look of it. Will doubted it had ever been swung in anger.

Ser Waymar led the way and Will and Gared followed him. When they came up the ridge Will's heart stopped in his chest. For a moment he dared not breathe. Moonlight lit the snow in a silver glint, the ashes were still in the fire pit which was smoking, the great rock, the little half-frozen stream. Everything was just as it had been a few hours ago.

They were gone. All the bodies were gone.

Royce looked down at the empty clearing. "Your dead men seem to have moved camp, Will."

Will's voice abandoned him. He groped for words that did not come. It was not possible. His eyes swept back and forth over the abandoned campsite. "They were right here."

Ser Waymar looked him over with open disapproval. "I am not going back to Castle Black a failure on my first ranging. We will find these men. Gared go back and bring the horses."

Will turned away, wordless. There was no use to argue. The wind was moving. It cut right through him. He saw movement from the corner of his eye. Pale shapes gliding through the wood. He turned his head, glimpsed a white shadow in the darkness. Then it was gone. Branches stirred gently in the wind, scratching at one another with wooden fingers. Will opened his mouth to call down a warning, and the words seemed to freeze in his throat. Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps it had only been a bird, a reflection on the snow, some trick of the moonlight. What had he seen, after all?

Ser Waymar was turning in a slow circle, suddenly wary, his sword in hand. He must have felt them, as Will felt them. There was nothing to see. It was cold.

A shadow emerged from the dark of the wood behind Royce. Tall, it was, and gaunt and hard as old bones, with flesh pale as milk. Its armour seemed to change colour as it moved; here it was white as new-fallen snow, there black as shadow, everywhere dappled with the deep grey-green of the trees. The patterns ran like moonlight on water with every step it took.

The wind had stopped. It was very cold.

It slid forward on silent feet. Its eyes blue, deeper and bluer than any human eye, a blue that burned like ice.

Will heard the breath go out of Ser Waymar Royce in a long hiss. "Come no farther," the lordling warned. His voice cracked like a boy's. He threw the long sable cloak back over his shoulders, to free his arms for battle, and took his sword in both hands. The wind had stopped. It was very cold.

The Other slid forward on silent feet. In its hand was a longsword like none that Will had ever seen. No human metal had gone into the forging of that blade. It was alive with moonlight, translucent, a shard of crystal so thin that it seemed almost to vanish when seen edge-on. There was a faint blue shimmer to the thing, a ghost-light that played around its edges, and somehow Will knew it was sharper than any razor.

Ser Waymar met him bravely. "Dance with me then." He lifted his sword high over his head, defiant.

The Other halted. Will saw its eyes; blue, deeper and bluer than any human eyes, a blue that burned like ice. They fixed on the longsword trembling on high, watched the moonlight running cold along the metal. For a heartbeat he dared to hope.

They emerged silently from the shadows, twins to the first. Three of them . . . four . . . five . . . Ser Waymar may have felt the cold that came with them, but he never saw them, never heard them. Will had to call out. It was his duty. And his death, if he did. He shivered, and hid behind the ridge, and kept the silence.

The pale sword came shivering through the air.

Ser Waymar met it with steel. When the blades met, there was no ring of metal on metal; only a high, thin sound at the edge of hearing, like an animal screaming in pain. Royce checked a second blow, and a third, then fell back a step. Another flurry of blows, and he fell back again.

Behind him, to right, to left, all around him, the watchers stood patient, faceless, silent, the shifting patterns of their delicate armor making them all but invisible in the wood. Yet they made no move to interfere.

Again and again the swords met, until Will wanted to cover his ears against the strange anguished keening of their clash. Ser Waymar was panting from the effort now, his breath steaming in the moonlight. His blade was white with frost; the Other's danced with pale blue light.

The Other said something in a language that Will did not know, his voice was like the cracking of ice on a winter lake, and the words were mocking.

Ser Waymar Royce found his fury. "For the Watch," he shouted, and he came up snarling, lifting the frost-covered longsword with both hands and swinging it around in a flat sidearm slash with all his weight behind it. The Other's parry was almost lazy.

When the blades touched, the steel shattered.

A scream echoed through the forest night, and the longsword shivered into a hundred brittle pieces, the shards scattering like a rain of needles. Royce went to his knees, shrieking, and covered his eyes. Blood welled between his fingers.

The watchers moved forward together, as if some signal had been given. Swords rose and fell, all in a deathly silence. It was cold butchery. The pale blades sliced through ringmail as if it were silk. Will closed his eyes. Far beneath him, he heard their voices and laughter sharp as icicles.

When he found the courage to look again, a long time had passed, and below the ridge the camp was empty.

He stayed there, scarce daring to breathe, while the moon crept slowly across the black sky. Finally, after a long time he climbed down.

Royce's body lay facedown in the snow, one arm outflung. The thick sable cloak had been slashed in a dozen places. Lying dead like that, you saw how young he was. A boy.

He found what was left of the sword a few feet away, the end splintered and twisted like a tree struck by lightning. Will knelt, looked around warily, and snatched it up. The broken sword would be his proof. Gared would know what to make of it, and if not him, then surely that old bear Mormont or Maester Aemon. Would Gared still be waiting with the horses? He had to hurry.

Will rose. Ser Waymar Royce stood over him.

His fine clothes were a tatter, his face a ruin. A shard from his sword transfixed the blind white pupil of his left eye.

The right eye was open. It burned blue and it saw.

The broken sword fell from nerveless ﬁngers. Will closed his eyes to pray. Long, elegant hands brushed his cheek, then tightened around his throat.

* * *

 _ **A/N: I tried my best to introduce the Others in different scenario but none felt right. So I had to stick with the canon version of it.**_


	46. Chapter 46

_**Tyrion**_

They reached King's Landing by the morning and the first things to do in Tyrion's mind was to get a feather bed and a nice hot meal and a whore to warm his bed. He has been riding for so long that his legs ached and cramped so badly. He could seldom walk with his legs. Tyrion was very much fed up with the swaying of the horse beneath him that he came to believe that his time in Casterly Rock spend with his father was much more entertaining than this. He missed the softness of his feather bed beneath him and the nice hot meal to fill his belly and the ache between his legs of staying so far away from a woman. He missed all of it so much that he meant to have all three at once. His father and the other tidings can wait. Woe to anyone who would keep him away from his bed.

Tyrion rode through the gate of gods with Bronn beside him. His escort of twenty redcloaks following behind him under the command Tregar. The paintings on the gate seemed to follow him as he passed through the portcullis. He did not like it one bit.

He could smell the stench of the city the moment he entered it. The stench of piss and shit and people. The moment he entered the city he found that it was well crowded.

The inn beneath the sign of the broken anvil stood within sight of those walls, near the Gate of the Gods where they had entered. As they rode into its courtyard, a boy ran out to help Tyrion down from his horse.

"What are you going to do here?" Bronn asked as Tyrion dismounted from his horse.

"Quite easy, if you think," Tyrion said. "A room with a featherbed, a meal and a flagon of wine and a good wench to warm me up completely."

"Innkeep," Tyrion called out as he entered the inn, "we have horses that want stabling, and me and my men require refreshments and room and a hot bath."

The innkeep bowed and smiled a hideous smile when she saw the Lannister lion upon his jerkin and his men coming up behind him. "I'm glad to host you my lord of Lannister. We'll find enough rooms and care for your men and horses."

Tyrion pulled a coin from his purse and flicked it up over his head, caught it, tossed it again. The wink of gold was unmistakable even in the candlelight.

He sent the coin spinning across the room to Bronn and the sellsword snatched it from the air. "Pay them for their services, will you Bronn?" He turned back to the innkeep. "You will be able to manage food, I trust?"

"Anything you like, m'lord, anything at all," the innkeep promised.

Tyrion glanced at the nearest tables and found that most of them were have a good gracious meal. He might very well have the taste of foods he's been wanting to taste for many days. "My men will have whatever you're serving these people. Double portions, we've had a long hard ride. I'll take a roast fowl—chicken, duck, pigeon, it makes no matter. And send up a flagon of your best wine."

"Aye, m'lord, It will be done," the innkeep said.

The bed and food were arranged. Now it is time for the whore. Tyrion faced Bronn. "Eat or drink whatever you want, Bronn," he said. "By the time I come back from my meal, I mean to see a pretty sight in my bed. Make it happen, will you?"

"I would prefer one who is reasonably young, with as pretty a face as you can find," he said. "If she has washed sometime this year, I shall be glad. If she hasn't, wash her. Be certain that you tell her who I am, and warn her of what I am. " Jyck had not always troubled to do that. There was a look the girls got in their eyes sometimes when they first beheld the lordling they'd been hired to pleasure . . . a look that Tyrion Lannister did not ever care to see again.

Tyrion waddled up the stairs to his room, saddlesore, and sour, all too vividly aware of how amusing he must look as he climbed up the stairs. He might get quite drunk tonight. Nothing made the day better than wine or a whore.

The innkeep kept her promise well enough. Two servants came with his rich meal: a huge duck, skin seared and crackling, cooked so fine in a nice golden color. The smell made his mouth water.

His wine came next, a large flagon of fine vintage to wash down the meat.

He filled his wine cup and watched a serving man carve into the duck. The crisp skin crackled under his knife, and hot juice ran from the meat. It was the loveliest sight Tyrion had seen in ages.

When the wings and legs were all separated from the body, Tyrion sent them away and tried to have a quiet meal, thinking about why he was here. His father told him to attend the prince's wedding in his stead but Tyrion knew better.

Either his lord father had a new respect for Tyrion so much so as to act in his stead in the very place he once ruled, or he'd decided to rid himself of his embarrassing get for good. Tyrion had the gloomy feeling he knew which.

He had waddled around in the lion's den when he was at Casterly Rock and now he found himself in this nest of adders they called King's Landing. At least in Casterly Rock he could see the lion and knew what he did and his brother Jaime had been with him. But now he was all alone in Kin'g Landing and never knew what hidden daggers the city had for him. Daggers like the one Ned Stark faced.

Thinking about that alone made his hunger fly away. Half of the duck was left on the plate and Tyrion took a long drink of his wine. He took the flagon and went back to his room.

Inside he found Bronn drinking from a skin of wine lying in the bed. A girl was with him; slim, dark-haired, no more than twenty by the look of her. Tyrion studied her face for a moment, before he spied bones in the table. "What did you eat?"

"Chicken," Bronn grinned. "I should say this to you dwarf, you do have a brain for choosing places to stay. The food and wine are fine here."

Chicken, he thought of the half eaten duck he had sent back. Damn my father. He stared mournfully at the bones, his belly rumbling.

Tyrion turned his attention back to the girl. "Is this her?" he asked Bronn.

She rose gracefully and looked down at him from the lofty height of five feet or more. "It is, m'lord, and she can speak for herself, if it please you. "

He cocked his head to one side. "I am Tyrion, of House Lannister. Men call me the Imp. "

"My mother named me Shae. Men call me . . . often. "

Bronn laughed, and Tyrion had to smile. "Into the bed chambers, Shae, if you would be so kind." He opened the door and held it for her. Inside, he knelt to light a candle.

Perhaps his life was not so bad or evil as his father thinks to be. Even he had some sort of tricks up his sleeve to get what he wanted. Where in the other places they would kill a dwarf at the first sight the gods were so good to see him born as a Lannister. Had he been born a peasant, they might have left him out to die, or sold him to some slaver's grotesquerie. But here he was born a Lannister of Casterly Rock, son of Lord Tywin Lannister and he got to enjoy his own privileges that came with that name. His brother Jaime had always been able to make men follow him eagerly, and die for him if need be. Tyrion lacked that gift. He bought loyalty with gold, and compelled obedience with his name. Yet, valour and bravery did little good for Jaime with the assassin and Tyrion meant to correct that in his life.

He lifted the candle and looked her over. Bronn had done well enough; she was doe-eyed and slim, with small firm breasts and a smile that was by turns shy, insolent, and wicked. He liked that. "Shall I take my gown off, m'lord?" she asked.

"In good time. Are you a maiden, Shae?"

"If it please you, m'lord," she said demurely.

"What would please me would be the truth of you, girl. "

"Aye, but that will cost you double. "

Tyrion decided they would get along splendidly. "I am a Lannister. Gold I have in plenty, and you'll find me generous . . . but I'll want more from you than what you've got between your legs, though I'll want that too. You'll share my bed, pour my wine, laugh at my jests, serve me when I ask of you . . . and whether I keep you a day or a year, for so long as we are together you will take no other men into your bed. "

"Fair enough. " She reached down to the hem of her thin roughspun gown and pulled it up over her head in one smooth motion, tossing it aside. There was nothing underneath but the naked body of the girl. "If he don't put down that candle, m'lord will burn his fingers. "

Tyrion put down the candle, took her hand in his, and pulled her gently to him. She bent to kiss him. Her mouth tasted of honey and cloves, and her fingers were deft and practiced as they found the fastenings of his clothes.

When he entered her, she welcomed him with whispered endearments and small, shuddering gasps of pleasure. Tyrion suspected her delight was feigned, but she did it so well that it did not matter. That much truth he did not crave.

He had needed her, Tyrion realized afterward, as she lay quietly in his arms. Her or someone like her. It had been a long time since he'd lain with a woman, since before he had set out for Riverrun to attend his nephew's wedding. His nephew was younger than this girl and he was already married. All the things happening recently meant only one thing, war and Tyrion would happily die thinking of wine and Shae rather than blood and sword.

He could feel the softness of her breasts pressed against his arm as she lay beside him. That was a good feeling. A song filled his head. Softly, quietly, he began to whistle.

"What's that, m'lord?" Shae murmured against him.

"Nothing," he told her. "A song I learned as a boy, that's all. Go to sleep, sweetling. "

When her eyes were closed and her breathing deep and steady, Tyrion slid out from beneath her, gently, so as not to disturb her sleep.

Down in the common room Bronn was seated alone in a table, near the brazier. He was honing the edge of his sword, wide awake; the sellsword did not seem to sleep like other men. "Where did you find her?" Tyrion asked him as he sat beside him.

"I took her from a knight, a pretty one. The man was loath to give her up, but a broken nose changed his thinking somewhat . . . and he didn't look so pretty with a broken nose."

"Splendid," Tyrion said dryly. "I seem to recall saying find me a whore, not make me an enemy. I have enough to think about in King's Landing and some unnamed knight is not a welcome addition."

"The pretty ones were all claimed," Bronn said. "I'll be pleased to take her back if you'd prefer a toothless drab. "

"My lord father would call that insolence, and send you to the mines for impertinence. "

"Good for me you're not your father," Bronn replied. "I saw one with boils all over her nose. Would you like her?"

"What, and break your heart?" Tyrion shot back. "I shall keep Shae. Did you at least know the name of this knight so I shall stay away from him in my time here."

Bronn rose, cat-quick and cat-graceful, turning his sword in his hand. "You'll have me beside you in your time here, dwarf. "

Tyrion nodded. The fire from the brazier was warm on his bare skin. "See that I survive this place, and you can name your reward. "

Bronn tossed the longsword from his right hand to his left. "Who'd want to kill you here?" he asked. "We're here for a wedding."

"You're too smart to believe that," Tyrion told him. "We're in a dragon's lair and which place of the dragon's lair is safe, I ask you. Even the feast there is only for the dragon, not for us. A king once learned that in a feast well enough and who are we compared to a king. I'm not about to do the same mistake he did."


	47. Chapter 47

_**Andrew**_

He found Ghost atop the hill, as he thought he might. The white wolf never howled, yet something drew him to the heights all the same, and he would squat there on his hindquarters, hot breath rising in a white mist as his red eyes drank the stars.

"Are you watching the stars again?" Andrew asked, as he went to one knee beside the direwolf and scratched the thick white fur on his neck. He pointed to his family looking down upon them from the night sky. "You see that? There's father and mother and we both are there." Ghost licked his face, his rough wet tongue rasping against the his cheeks where Joy had once kissed everyday. What would've she said if he'd shown her Ghost? he wondered. She would've loved him, he thought. It was not in Joy to hate anyone, even those who hate her. "Ghost," he said quietly, "It's time. It's time to get our justice for mother and father and Joy. There's no steps here, no cage-and-crane, no way for me to get you to the other side. We have to part. Do you understand?"

In the dark, the direwolf's red eyes looked black. He nuzzled at Andrew's neck, silent as ever, his breath a hot mist. Old Nan might've called Andrew Stark a warg, but if so he was a poor one. He did not know how to put on a wolf skin, the way men in her stories had with the birds of the sky and creatures of the deep. Once Andrew had dreamed that he was Ghost, looking down upon the Wolfswood and hunting alone, and that dream had turned out to be true. But he was not dreaming now, and that left him only words.

"You cannot come with me," Andrew said, cupping the wolf's head in his hands and looking deep into those eyes. "Stay close to Winterfell. Do you understand? Winterfell. Once I'm inside and had my chance I'll open the gates for you. I will meet you again at Winterfell, but you have to get there by yourself. We must each hunt alone for a time. Alone."

The direwolf twisted free of Andrew's grasp, his ears pricked up. And suddenly he was bounding away. He loped through a tangle of brush, leapt a deadfall, and raced down the hillside, a pale streak among the trees. Off to Winterfell? Andrew wondered. Or off after a hare? He wished he knew. He feared he might prove just as poor a warg as a son and a lover.

A wind sighed through the trees, rich with the smell of pine needles, tugging at his white jacket. Andrew could see the grey walls of Winterfell looming high and dark to the south, a great shadow blocking out the stars. The rough hilly ground made him think he must be somewhere between the Great keep and armoury, and likely closer to the fight. For days they had been wending their way around Winterfell, hiding between trees and fresh fallen snows that covered the forest floors, while flint ridges and pine-clad hills jostled against one another to either side. Such ground made for slow riding, but offered easy concealment for those wishing to approach Winterfell unseen.

Beyond those grey walls lay Winterfell, and everything he had held dear once. He had been born the firstborn and only son of King Eddard Stark and Queen Ashara Dayne, had grown up as their son until Rhaegar Targaryen took them away from him, and by rights he should be up there fighting for it against those who sullied his home. He should be raising the banners of the north to rouse his people to arms. He might go to them, castle after castle, to the Umbers, the Karstarks, the Manderlys calling them to fight, but what would that accomplish? No one would hear him. They might laugh straight to his face at that. His father had once said that every road in the north will lead to home. That had been true once, when his father and mother was still alive. Then every place they went there had been people to offer their homes and hospitality. It had felt home. But without father and mother even the familiar Wolfswood did not feel so familiar now. He felt as if he did not belong here even in the north where his father once ruled, as if he did not belong anywhere.

I should have killed Rhaegar Targaryen in Braavos, even if it meant my life. That was what father would have done. But Andrew had ran for his life that day, and the chance passed. And what did you get for such a bold act? The death of Joy, the woman you loved. He told himself that he was only biding his time, that when the moment came he would raise the north in his father's name. The moment never came.

The mouth of the cave where he camped for the night was a cleft in the rock barely wide enough for a horse, half concealed behind a soldier pine. It opened to the north, so the glows of the fires within would not be visible from the walls of Winterfell. Even if by some mischance a patrol should happen to pass atop the outer wall tonight, they would see nothing but hills and pines and the icy sheen of starlight on a half-frozen brook. Andrew had planned the entire thing in a careful way. He did not come all the way to Westeros only to see Winterfell.

Andrew collected Frost and his blades from the cave. The night's cookfire burned amongst the column, the smoke rising to blacken the stony ceiling. He put out the fire and walked back to his horse.

It was about the hour of wolf. There will be patrols on the high walls of Winterfell. There must be and the men in those patrols will be able men as well not sickly or spare ones. He knew that better than anyone. "No wall can keep you safe," his father had told him once, as they walked the walls of Winterfell. Andrew could not have been older than five that his father had to hold his hand as they walked, but he had been very eager to learn new things. "A wall is only as strong as the men who defend it."

A strong castle like Winterfell will have strong men to defend it. The guards at the walls will be the ones to fall first before they could alert the others. Winterfell itself was a huge castle complex spanning several acres, defended by two massive walls of grey granite with a wide moat between them. The outer wall is eighty feet high and the inner wall is higher even than the outer one almost reaching one hundred feet high, with a wide moat between them. His father would have both the walls manned all time. Even at night there would be enough men at the walls to watch all sides of the castle and to hold any surprise attacks. There were guard turrets on the outer wall and more than thirty watch turrets on the crenelated inner walls all filled with archers and watchers during the time of his father.

Entering the castle through the main gates was almost impossible if he wished to stay hidden. Stealth was his primary weapon now and Andrew didn't want to throw up his cover. The great main gates had a gatehouse made of two huge crenelated bulwarks which flanked the arched gate and a drawbridge that opens into the market square of the winter town. The main gates would be heavily guarded that it was hard even for him to enter the castle through there even with the cover of night. The other three gates were his options. There was a crack once near the Hunter's Gate from where Andrew would play climbing when he was little. When his mother found about it she had father send some men and seal the crack so that no one could climb there anymore.

He might want to find a new place to climb now.

As the moon reigned supreme in the black sky, the grey walls of Winterfell appeared before him, rising above the trees and the morning mists. Moonlight glimmered against the dark towers and walls black as shadow. He led the horse to a nearby elm and tied it to a low branch. Before him Winterfell rose up, stone towers and all.

He could see the distant fires on top of the wall. From the ground he could not tell if there were sentries walking the wall eighty feet above. Climbing this wall will be a challenge. Despite the challenge, the exhaustion, Joy, his parents, justice, Rhaegar and the dragon, despite it all, Andrew smiled. It was good to be back. To see his home, where he was born and lived happily with his parents.

For years he had dreamed of taking his home back from the Targaryens. That somehow he would find the courage to get the northern people fight for him and take back Winterfell and will finally make his father and mother proud. And right now he was right at the doorstep of the castle. It would only take a few steps to do all that. He could get to see Winterfell again and the people. Ser Rodrick Cassel, the master at arms. Ser Old-knight he had called him when he was little and Ser Rodrick will always laugh at that. Jory Cassel and Desmond, Harwin who led his ponies when he had learnt to sit a horse for the first time, Ser Walys with his big chain and various little things, Old Nan with her thousand stories, happy stories, sad stories, funny stories, bad stories and scary stories, she knew them all. Lynora his mother's handmaid, Gage the Cook with his endless treats, Mikken in his forge, Farlen and his puppies, Hodor, the man in the glass gardens who gave him a blackberry whenever Andrew comes to visit, Fat Tom who would chase him through the snows after Andrew hits him with some snowball. He was big and slow which had made him an easy target and an easy escape for him. Hullen, Alyn, Porther he remembered everyone of them. Every single person in Winterfell had been so good to him and he knew them all. And his great-grandfather Rodrick who had carried him on his back even in that old age. He wondered what happened to him, what happened to all of them. His father had left the castle to his great grandfather when they had left for the south and the next time Andrew had heard about Winterfell, it had fallen to the hands of the Targaryens. He could only wish that his great-grandfather was alive even when something else in his heart said otherwise. He was only an old man and posed no threat to the Targaryens.

He pulled away the grappling claws and ropes. The outer wall rose up high before him, a large thrust of grey granite. After the bright moonlight, its shadow was so black that it felt like stepping into a cave. He tied one end of his rope around his waist, the other end around the thick branch of a sentinal near the wall. Throwing a grappling hook eighty feet above was impossible for any normal man. Andrew leapt over the lowest branch of the sentinel and pulled himself up. From there he moved higher and higher, vaulting over one branch and another.

When he reached the top of the tree, throwing the hook over the wall didn't seem so impossible then. When the hook was secure over the wall, Andrew secured the rope around him and started to climb. He had never climbed so high before and was almost afraid about it. Don't look down. Keep your weight above your feet. Don't look down. Look at the wall in front of you. There's a good handhold, yes. Don't look down. I did not come all the way here to fall to my death. Never look down.

Once his foot slipped as he put his weight on it and his heart stopped in his chest, but the gods were good and he did not fall. He could feel the cold seeping off the wall into his fingers. His burned hand was stiffening up on him, and soon it began to ache.

Up he went, and up, and up, a white shadow creeping across the moonlit wall. Anyone down on the floor could have seen him easily, but there was no one to see him there. He was close now, though. Andrew could sense it. Even so, he did not think of the foes who were waiting for him, all unknowing, but of his father and mother who loved him and saved him.

When he reached to the top of the outer wall, Andrew saw that there was no light in half of the guard turrets. Those towers always held men during the time of his father. But he was relieved that was not the case now. Less men meant less kills or less chance of being seen. His first kill came out of nowhere. Silent and swift as a shadowcat Andrew moved over to his enemy and buried his hidden blade right to the back of his neck. When he threw the body over the wall into the moat, three of his companions nearby came to look out for the reason for the splash of water. Andrew cracked the skull of one with Frost from behind him and cut down the other while simultaneously killing the last one by driving his left hidden blade through his eye. One of the deads had lowered the drawbridge which connected the inner wall and the outer wall over the moat. He saw three more men in the inner wall, all huddled up in their cloaks and furs, fast asleep. For a moment he thought to quiet them in their sleep but they might prove helpful if they are alive. He climbed to the nearest watch turret and looked down at his home.

From where he stood, Winterfell was a grey stone labyrinth of walls and towers and courtyards and tunnels spreading out in all directions. In the older parts of the castle, the halls slanted up and down so that you couldn't even be sure what floor you were on. The place had grown over the centuries like some monstrous stone tree, Maester Walys told him once, and its branches were gnarled and thick and twisted, its roots sunk deep into the earth.

When he got up from under the turret and scrambled up near the sky, Andrew could see all of Winterfell in a glance. He liked the way it looked, spread out beneath him. Watching the castle from up top, he could only think of how much he had missed it.

He could see almost everything around him in the starlight. It had not changed much from the last time he'd seen it. He could see the Great Keep and the Godswood, the Broken Tower and the First Keep, the Glass Gardens and Maester Walys' turret, the Bell Tower and even the bridge connecting the Great Keep and the armory.

He even remembered some of the secrets about Winterfell. The builders had not even leveled the earth; there were hills and valleys behind the walls of Winterfell. There was a covered bridge that went from the fourth floor of the bell tower across to the second floor of the rookery. Andrew knew about that. And he knew you could get inside the inner wall by the south gate, climb three floors and run all the way around Winterfell through a narrow tunnel in the stone, and then come out on ground level at the north gate, with a hundred feet of wall looming over you. Most of them didn't know that, Andrew was convinced, and certainly not these new southerners.

He might stay there for a while until he could reach the dragon unseen. He looked everywhere for that thing but it could be seen nowhere. Andrew had wanted to eliminate the dragon before he could liberate the castle because killing that beast was the only way to liberate the castle.

He was searching for the dragon when he saw a man pushing and wrestling with a woman near the armory. She seemed to be trying to get away from his grasp but was failing in it. Andrew watched it from the top. His plan would have him stay hidden and leave it be and for a heartbeat he thought of doing so. But then he remembered the wrongings done to the people and what good he is than the Targaryens if he let them happen.

Andrew climbed down the turret and entered the inner tunnel of the inner wall and moved swiftly always searching for any guards. He came out to the ground by the north gate and crossed the yard to the armory in the cover of night.

The man was pushing the woman against the wall of the armory. He had a dark cloak hanging from his shoulders, another one of the Targaryen men.

"Hey," Andrew called, walking over to him. "Showing the strength to a woman now, are we?"

The man took a look at him and then turned again to the woman. "Mind yer business."

Andrew put his hand at the guard's shoulder to turn him back to him. Irritated, the guard swung his hand to hit his head. Andrew ducked under his hand and punched at his ribs with his left hand, connected his right fist at his jaw and then again punched his left jaw with his left. He grasped the guard's head and smashed it against the wall, once, twice, thrice and then pushed his limp body to the ground.

"Are you alright?" he asked the woman on the ground. Her clothes were torn, lips broken and bleeding. There was a deep purple bruise on her cheek where the guard had hit her.

She looked up at him from the ground, holding her torn clothes over her breast. "Yes," she said looking at him and Andrew saw her eyes growing wide in shock and surprise. She got up at once and Andrew could see her face now.

"Your grace," Lynora said going to one knee.

Andrew lifted her back up. "Get up. Do you still remember me?"

His mother's handmaid threw her arms around him and hugged him. "Of course, I do," she said. "How could I not? It's just there in the face but your hair, it's your-"

"My mother's," Andrew finished for her with a smile.

"But how did you... We thought you were dead."

"Long story," Andrew told her. "Now is not the right time."

"Right," Lynora nodded.

"I need your help," he told Lynora.

"Whatever you want, your grace."

"Wake maester Walys and our men, tell them what happened here. I will need all the help I could get to do this."

"At once, your grace." His mother's handmaid bowed and left him there in the dark.

It felt strange to hear her call him 'Your Grace.' He had heard her call Queen Ashara and King Eddard as 'Your Graces' when he was a prince. Everyone in the north had called his mother and father as 'Your Grace' but it was new to him.

He was waiting by the armory when Lynora brought a handful of men. He had thought to see them all groggy from sleep but none of them had a hint of sleep in their face. They seemed so eager to meet this self-proclaimed son of King Eddard and Queen Ashara but Andrew was hesitant to show himself out to them. He did not know how they would react to him. But then again all of them were here atleast to see that if he is true when he is known to be dead to this world. He had thought them to send Lynora back telling her that their prince is dead with their king and queen. That much was good enough for him to step out from the dark and into the light.

They all looked at him for a quiet few seconds, so intently that Andrew feared that they might not believe or accept him. If they are not going to believe me, I'll make them believe me. He was about to tell them of what happened that day at Starfall when one by one all went down to one knee. Everyone from Maester Walys to Jory and Ser Rodrik to Mikken and Farlen to Desmond and Fat Tom, all went down to one knee with a single word from their mouths.

"Your Grace."

"Get up," Andrew told them. "You don't have to do that."

His men stayed on one knee, their heads bowed down. Andrew picked up Maester Walys and Ser Rodrik and the others followed.

"We never thought to see you alive and well," Maester Walys said.

"How did you escape?" Ser Rodrik asked. "We heard that you were killed, my king."

"Mother saved me," Andrew told them. "And I'm here now to get justice for mother and father and everyone who died that day. For that I need your help."

"Give us the command, sire," Farlen said. "We'll do anything for you."

He could almost sense the work half done at that. "Mikken, I need one of your best spears," he told the armorer. "Maester Walys, bring me the deadliest poisons from your stores."

He could see that everyone was confused at that.

"What are you going to do, your grace?" Ser Rodrik asked.

"I'm going to kill a dragon."


	48. Chapter 48

_**Jaehaerys**_

One moment he was asleep; the next, awake.

It was the black of night. The bedchamber was dark and still.

What is it? Did I hear something? Someone?

Wind sighed faintly against the shutters. Somewhere, far off, he heard the hoot of an owl in the dark. Nothing else. Sleep, he told himself. The castle is quiet, and you have guards posted. At your door, at the gates, on the armory.

He might have put it down to a bad dream, but he did not remember dreaming. The day had worn him out. He ought to be back at King's Landing for his brother's marriage, leaving this cold place for good. But this new found trouble of outlaws in the wolfswood has kept him here. He would not go back to his father as a failure. It is time he proved himself to his father, to prove that he is capable of ruling a kingdom. Jaehaerys had sent Ser Derek hunting after them but there has been no more words from him. Nothing from Waterspring too, other than some stupid talk of the common folk. To speak of ghosts and grumkins, Jaehaerys had already heard them in the stories of his wetnurses. He had never been afraid of them then, why should he fear them now?

He slid out from his bed and got to his feet. A few embers still smoldered in the hearth. Nothing moved. Jaehaerys crossed to the window and threw open the shutters. Night touched him with cold fingers, and gooseprickles rose on his bare skin. He leaned against the stone sill and looked out on dark towers, empty yards, black sky, and more stars than a man could ever count if he lived to be a hundred. A half-moon floated above the Bell Tower and cast its reflection on the roof of the glass gardens. He heard no alarums, no voices, not so much as a footfall.

All's well, Jae. Hear the quiet? You ought to be drunk with joy. You are the Lord of Winterfell. The boy who took the castle from the King in the North, a feat to sing of. He started back to bed. But something about the quiet unnerved him.

He stopped. He had grown so used to the different sounds in Winterfell that he scarcely heard it anymore... but some part of him, some hunter's instinct, heard its absence.

Kent stood outside his door, a tall and lean man with a round shield slung over his back. "The castle is so quiet," Jaehaerys told him. "Go to the Walls and see if anything is wrong, and come straight back." The thought of the outlaws inside his walls gave him a queasy feeling. It was a tricksy thought of ruling Winterfell and at the same time of being in enemy territory. The northerners could easily overpower him and his men here and Jaehaerys had no doubt that they would if it was not for Viserion.

Quade was sleeping on the floor, huddled up in his cloak. When Jaehaerys prodded him with the toe of his boot, Quade sat up and rubbed his eyes. "Make certain Walys Flowers and Ser Rodrik are in their beds, and be quick about it."

Of all the people in Winterfell, Jaehaerys distrusted the maester and the knight more than anyone. He had stripped the old knight's post as the master-at-arms of Winterfell and replaced him with Quade, a loyal man of his. If only Jaehaerys had the possibility of changing the maester, he would've done it at once.

Jaehaerys poured himself a cup of wine and drank it down as he waited. All the time he was listening, hoping to hear a sound. Too few men, he thought sourly. I have too few men if the north chooses to rise up for a ghost. His only thought was on Viserion. He might need him now.

Quade returned the quickest, shaking his head side to side. Cursing, Jaehaerys found his tunic and breeches on the floor where he had dropped them in his haste to get to his sleep. Over the tunic he donned a jerkin of iron-studded leather, and he belted a longsword and dagger at his waist. His hair was wild as the wood, but he had larger concerns.

By then Kent was back. "The men at the outer walls are gone."

Jaehaerys told himself he must be as brave and feared as a dragon. "Rouse the castle," he said. "Herd them out into the yard, everyone, we'll see who's missing. And have Jyke make a round of the gates. Quade, with me."

He wondered if Ser Derek had dealt with the outlaws yet. The man was the best fighter he had to offer — and the one people feared the most. For a moment he wondered if he made a mistake by sending Darkfang away. He might have been so useful right now. Moreover Darkfang took most of his men from Waterspring in his pursuit of the Lightning Lord and the Brotherhood.

Maester Walys's turret was empty, as was Rodrik Cassel's bedchamber near the armoury. Jaehaerys cursed himself. He should have kept a guard on them, but he'd trusted the men enough to keep quiet and go on with their life.

Outside he heard sobbing as the castle folk were pulled from their beds and driven into the yard. I'll give them reason to sob. I've used them gently, and this is how they repay me. He'd even had kept some of Eddard Stark's loyal men alive only to show them he meant to be good to them. He never allowed his men to even touch the handmaid Lynora, to mean that they were safe in his rule. They still blame me for the deaths, though. Deaths that were caused even before he arrived here. He deemed that unfair. Hullen, the old master of horse, Vayon Poole who was Stark's steward and others who got themselves killed because they stood up for their dead king and his lost cause, just as the old man Stark had. He wondered how many of them were part of this new plot against him.

Kent returned with Jyke. "The Hunter's Gate," Jyke said. "Best come see."

The Hunter's Gate was conveniently sited close to the kennels and kitchens. It opened directly on fields and forests, allowing riders to come and go without first passing through the winter town, and so was favored by hunting parties. "Who had the guard here?" Jaehaerys demanded.

"Vaith and Tris."

"If they've let anyone inside the walls in their want for rest, I'll have their eyelids off so that they won't find the need to sleep again, I swear it."

"No need for that," Jyke said curtly.

Nor was there. They found Tris floating facedown in the moat, along with three other men. Jaehaerys found one to be Jofer and the others to be Grent and Selth. Vaith lay near the gatehouse, in the snug room where the drawbridge was worked. Half of his face had been bloodied and bashed. A ragged tunic concealed his torso, but his breeches was unlaced. His sword and dagger were hanging from his belt lying near the door. Blades still in their sheath, Jaehaerys observed.

"Tris was up on the wallwalk, no?"

"Aye," said Jyke.

"The other three were up on the outer walls," Jaehaerys picked up Vaith's belt from the ground. "I'd say someone climbed inside the castle and threw them down. Someone find a pike and fish the other fools out of the moat."

The other fools were in a deal worse shape than Vaith. When Jyke drew them out of the water, they saw that all were killed by the use of blades unlike Vaith.

"The outlaws," Jaehaerys said. "Walys and Rodrik helped them into the castle, at a guess." Disgusted, he walked back to the drawbridge. Winterfell was encircled by two massive granite walls, with a wide moat between them. The outer wall stood eighty feet high, the inner more than a hundred. When Ser Derek took men in his pursuit after the brotherhood, Jaehaerys had only put four men to hold the outer walls and and post most of his guards along the higher inner walls. He dared not risk having them on the wrong side of the moat should the castle rise against him.

There had to be someone who lent help from the inside, he decided.

Jaehaerys called for a torch and led them up the steps to the wallwalk. He swept the flame low before him, looking for... there. On the inside of the rampart and in the wide crenel between two upthrust merlons. "Blood," he announced, "At a guess, someone killed the first one and pushed him into the moat. The others heard the splash of water, came to have a look, and followed him into the moat. They threw the corpses into the moat so they wouldn't be found by another sentry."

Kent peered along the walls. "The other watch turrets are not far. I see torches burning—"

"Torches, but no guards," Jaehaerys said testily. "Winterfell has more turrets than I have men."

"Four guards walked the outer walls," said Kent, "The others, the best number of them occupied the inner walls."

Hogan said, "If someone had sounded his horn—"

I am served by fools. "Try and imagine it was you up here, Hogan. It's dark and cold. You have been walking sentry for hours, looking forward to the end of your watch. Then you hear a noise and move up the wall, and suddenly someone fall upon you. Or men you thought to be as friends suddenly turn upon you. What would you do?" He gave Hogan a hard shove. "Tell me, at what moment during all of this do you stop to blow your fucking horn?"

"Whom do you think to have climbed into the castle?" Kent asked.

"Who else," Jaehaerys told him. "The brotherhood, of course."

He could see that Kent did not believe him. The statement was written well upon his face.

"Don't you think it was the outlaws then?" Jaehaerys asked him.

Kent looked straight at him. "We have always had a small defense in the outer walls, my prince but in all our years here we've never had an outsider infiltrating the castle."

"Who do you think did this then?" Jaehaerys asked. "The maester or the old knight?"

"Neither," Kent said. "There's been talks from Waterspring, my prince."

Not this thing again, thought Jaehaerys. He has important things to do other that to worry about ghosts. "So you think my uncle's ghost killed them all?"

"There's been talks of people seeing him, my prince."

"That is exactly what it is," Jaehaerys told him. "Some stupid talk of the smallfolk. If Eddard Stark's ghost is really here, I'll be the first one he'll try to kill. I sit in his throne, I eat from his plate, drink from his cup, sleep in his bed where he fucked his queen Ashara. He has no reason to kill the guards. Now, are you stupid to believe these stupid talks?"

"Have you called in the household?"

"They are herded in the yard," Quade said.

"Good," said Jaehaerys. "I had best go speak with my loyal subjects."

Down in the yard, an uneasy crowd of men, women, and children had been pushed up against the wall. Most of them covered themselves with woolen blankets, or huddled under cloaks or bedrobes. Two dozen guards hemmed them in, torches in one hand and weapons in the other. The wind was gusting, and the flickering orange light reflected dully off steel helms, thick beards, and unsmiling eyes.

Jaehaerys walked up and down before the prisoners, studying the faces. They all looked guilty to him. "How many are missing?"

"Eight." Quade stepped up behind him, his long hair moving in the wind. "Both the maester and Rodrik Cassel, the armourer and Farlen and the other guards of Stark."

I should have put them to death so they can serve their king from their graves.

"Has anyone had a look at the stables?"

"Aggar says no horses are missing."

So they are either in the castle or they're afoot, then. That was the best news he'd heard since he woke. He would need to sort out the traitors from this lot first. Or maybe investigate as to if they were still inside. "Someone has killed my men in my castle," he told the castle folk, watching their eyes. "Who knows about the murderers?" No one answered. "They could not have done this without help," Jaehaerys went on. He had locked away every sword and axe in Winterfell, but no doubt some had been hidden from him. "I'll have the names of all those who aided them. All those who turned a blind eye." The only sound was the wind. "Come first light, I mean to bring them to justice." He hooked his thumbs through his swordbelt. "I need huntsmen. And a loyal man to say who did this?" None had anything to say now. Jaehaerys walked back the way he had come, searching their faces for the least sign of guilty knowledge. "I might have killed every man of you and given your women to my soldiers for their pleasure, but instead I protected you. Is this the thanks you offer?" Joseth who'd groomed the horses, Murch, Garris — not one of them would meet his eyes. They hate me, he realized.

Quade stepped close. "Take captives of them, my prince," he urged. "If sweet words won't loose their tongue, a pair of hot pincers ought too."

His grandfather might have done that for sure or bathe all of them in his precious wildfire.

"There will be no means of such punishment in the north so long as I rule in Winterfell," Jaehaerys said loudly. I am your only protection against the likes of him, he wanted to scream. He could not be that blatant, but perhaps some were clever enough to take the lesson.

The sky was greying over the castle walls. Dawn could not be far off. "I'll give you this one last chance to show your loyalty." He looked at them silently.

"Very well-," Jaehaerys was saying when a couple of shadows came out from the broken tower in the the early morning gloom. They were followed by a few more men, all with steel in hand except for the maester of course.

"Good," Jaehaerys told them. "Now that all of you are here, we might talk about the penalty for your treason and murders."

"Murder," Desmond spat from Ser Rodrik's side.

Maester Walys walked to him. "My lord prince," he said, "you must yield."

Jaehaerys stared at him with wide eyes. How dare he? If the old man thinks he might frighten me with a little resistance he is mistaken. "There will be no yielding. Now tell me, did you help any outlaws in? Where are they hiding?"

"Funny how your father called His Grace as an Outlaw," Ser Rodrik said. "And now you should call him by the same name."

"Enough," Jaehaerys snapped. He was done with these sly talks. "I will have order."

"We will never get that in your father's rule."

"So this is it," Jaehaerys said. "You would rather die than live in some dead man's name." When no one moved he continued. "If it is war you want then so be it." Jaehaerys turned to Quade. "Bring me my mail and armour, Quade."

He looked at all the people in the yard, outnumbering him and his men by a good number. All of them looking at him with blank, accusing faces, the people who were his own people once. He knew that they would turn on him as soon as the fight began. Murch, Garris and Poxy Tyn had already joined the resistance. The others would do that as well, he knew. But the prince of Winterfell had other ideas. "Men," he shouted to his own guards. "Prepare for battle."

As his shout echoed through the morning wind, Jaehaerys heard a faint flap of wings in the distance. A faint smile graced his lips as he saw the fear and doubts in the faces of the small folk.

That's good. Mercy was for this morning, thought Jaehaerys. It is better to be feared than laughed at. Mercy was before they made me angry.


	49. Chapter 49

_**Andrew**_

When Andrew got the poisons from Maester Walys and fresh made castle forged spear from Mikken he knew that it was time. His chosen lair was the broken tower. Once it had been a watchtower, the tallest in Winterfell. A long time ago, a hundred years before even his father had been born, a lightning strike had set it afire. The top third of the structure had collapsed inward, and the tower had never been rebuilt. Sometimes his father sent ratters into the base of the tower, to clean out the nests they always found among the jumble of fallen stones and charred and rotten beams. But no one ever got up to the jagged top of the structure now except for the crows stayed there.

He observed two ways to get up there. You could climb straight up the side of the tower itself, but the stones were loose, the mortar that held them together long gone to ash, and Andrew was not ready to put his full weight on them.

The other and the best way was to start from the godswood, shinny up the tall sentinel, and cross over the armory and the guards hall, leaping roof to roof, quietly so the guards wouldn't hear you overhead. That will bring you up to the blind side of the First Keep, the oldest part of the castle, a squat round fortress that was taller than it looked. Only rats and spiders lived there now but the old stones still made for good climbing. You could go straight up to where the gargoyles leaned out blindly over empty space, and swing from gargoyle to gargoyle, hand over hand, around to the north side. From there, if you really stretched, you could reach out and pull yourself over to the broken tower where it leaned close. The last part was the scramble up the blackened stones to the eyrie, no more than ten feet, and then the crows would come round to see if you'd brought any corn.

He crossed the godswood, coming at the base of the sentinel tree near the armory wall. Andrew jumped, grabbed a low branch, and pulled himself up. He was halfway up the tree, moving easily from limb to limb. Somewhere behind him an owl hooted blindly in the dark. The godswood was still as a stone and even the trees did not seem to sway. The silence might have scared him once but he almost welcomed it now.

He climbed to the top and jumped off onto the armory roof and out of sight.

For an assassin the rooftops were his second home. He spent most of his time following or stalking someone from above and even brought death to people from air. Most of the time they never saw him there anyway. People never looked up. That was another thing he liked about being in the rooftops; it was almost like being invisible. His mother often said to Andrew that he could be whoever he wants to be. Will she be happy to know that he is an assassin? Will his father be happy about it? Will the honourable King Eddard be proud to know that his son is an assassin? Somehow he dreaded the answer. He could only hope that they understand him. That he did not choose this path he was walking but instead this path chose him.

As a boy, Winterfell had always awed him with it's massive walls and towers. The place was so big that Andrew had played the lazy boy with his mother just so she would carry him and he would be spared of walking. His father would urge him to walk all his way when he turned four but even he can be swayed in his decisions and none knew the way to sway the King in the North as good as his wife and young son. Being big had its advantages too. It made a great place for exploring for young children. None knew the castle well and full which had left it with many hidden places amongst the ruins.

He moved from gargoyle to gargoyle with the ease of long practice. When he reached the tower near the First Keep Andrew looked down. There was a narrow ledge beneath the window, only a few inches wide. He tried to lower himself toward it. Too far. He would never reach.

He studied the ledge. He could drop down. It was too narrow to land on, but if he could catch hold as he fell past, pull himself up. That might work or he could fall to his death. Yet it was the only way to get there. Andrew closed his eyes, took a deeb breath and let go of his grip from the gargoyle. He shot out a hand as he fell, grabbed for the ledge, lost it, caught it again with his other hand. He swung against the building, hard. The impact took the breath out of him. Andrew dangled, one-handed, panting.

He looked down where the courtyard swam dizzily below him, its stones still wet with melted snow visible only by the light of the moon. Andrew lifted the sack over his back with his free hand and threw it inside the room through the window. He threw up his other hand and grabbed onto the ledge and pulled himself up. He came up to view inside the room and climbed inside.

A flock of crows took flight as he stepped in, their black wings beating against the night air, flying so close and fast that he heard their flapping near his ears. Andrew shielded himself from the dust which swirled around in their wake. For a moment he feared if the tower might collapse all the way to the ground burying him in a rubble of stones. But the moment passed and nothing happened. The tower stood still.

Above him, all the world had gone black, and he could see the faint light of distant stars. The moon was still high in the sky. It is still the hour of wolf Andrew figured by the look of it. Dawn is still a bit away. Below his men would be carrying on the orders he had given them. Andrew was surprised to see them remember him with just a look of him. It only took a look for them to remember him as their prince. The north remembers, he heard his father's voice say somewhere. Or was it in my heart. . . he never knew the answer.

He had told them to put the dead in the places where the Targaryen prince could find them. He will want to find the killers for sure when he finds that it is not a safe place for him anymore. Any luck he might bring his dragon to the ground too trying to squeeze the answer out from the people through fear.

And that might be his chance. Foolish that it may be, it is the only way to root out the Targaryen power from the north. It was no easy thing to slay a dragon, but it can be done. Throughhout history there has been legends of heroes and knights slaying dragons from all times.

Ser Galladon of Morne, the Perfect Knight once slew a dragon with his enchanted sword The Just Maid. Then there was Serwyn of the Mirror Shield, a legendary hero from the Age of Heroes. Andrew had his father tell him tales of Serywn when he was a little boy. The greatest accomplishment of Serywn was slaying Urrax, the largest dragon that ever lived. He approached the dragon behind his shield. Urrax saw only his own reflection until Serwyn had plunged his spear through his eye. There had been a knight who'd tried the same thing with another dragon once. He had heard that story too. He had forgotten the knight's name who had tried to kill Vhagar or was it Syrax. . . it was hard to remember. It had happened hundreds of years ago, when brother fought sister in the war the singers called the Dance of the Dragons. The knight had tried the same ploy that Serwyn had used to slay Urrax thousands of years ago. But unlike Serwyn the poor knight was roasted for his trouble.

The Dornish had killed a dragon during Aegon's conquest. Meraxes, Queen Rhaenys' dragon fell to an iron bolt as it went through her eye. And some tales claim dragons once roosted on Battle Isle until the first Hightower put an end to them. His mother had heard the tales from her mother who was a Hightower so Andrew believed them to be true.

Whatever the tales said, the men who slew dragons were loved and clebrated by the smallfolk. There were songs sung of the valor of Ser Galladon and Serwyn and they remained the favorites of the smallfolk.

Will they sing songs about me? Andrew wondered. Will they call him Andrew Dragonsbane, Andrew the Dragonslayer or will it be Andrew the Absurd? They are welcome to write whatever they want about him and if he should fail let it be known that Andrew Stark went down fighting for his right and family.

But he had his last and best option to slay the beast. He looked behind him and saw Frost on the floor. The crystal on the end of the pommel glimmered blue in the moonlight. From the moment Andrew laid eyes on the sword he knew that Frost was different, even different from the other valyrian steel swords he had seen. His father's sword had been valyrian steel, spell-forged. Andrew had held it more than once when he had been a little boy with the help of his father. But Ice had been dark, a dark smokey grey that the blade seemed black in certain light. His uncle's sword was the exact opposite of his father's Ice. His mother had told him various stories of how the sword was made. Dawn had been forged from the heart of the fallen star by the God of Skies and Thunder whom legends claim as the founder of House Dayne. Though Dawn was different from valyrian steel by no means it was any less impressive than valyrian steel. Dawn was pale as the moon itself and the blade had always awed Andrew as it seemed to have contained the entire power and light of the sun. Every time he held Dawn in his hands he saw that the blade was alive with light. He wondered what happened to both the swords and where they were now?

Frost was different from them as well. Blue and grey the ripples ran, deep within the blue steel. Near the bronze crossguard there were ancient runes engraved into the blade. There were times Andrew could swear that he saw the sword glowing in a frozen blue glow. And it did not stop at that. The blade was so cold that one could barely touch it when it glows. It was a sword fit for a hero. When he was small, his mother and Old Nan had filled his ears with tales of valor, regaling him with the noble exploits of Ser Galladon of Morne, Florian the Fool, Prince Aemon the Dragonknight, and other champions. His father and uncle had earned their places in that company and each man bore a famous sword, and surely Frost belonged in their company, right beside Ice and Dawn even if Andrew did not belong with King Eddard and Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning.

In the sack he had the things he got from the maester and the armorer. When he had asked for poisons, maester Walys came back from his workroom with his ointments, potions, and medicines which had stood neatly on a little wooden box. Andrew had visited the Maester's turret more than once when he was a child to feed the ravens. Maester Walys' workroom in his chambers had been filled with various medicines and potions and other shiny vials which the maester taught him as poisons. From the wooden box with dozens of blocks all filled with different vials and jars Andrew took a vial of indigo glass, no larger than his little finger, behind a row of salves in squat clay jars. It rattled when he shook it. He blew away a layer of dust. Andrew pulled the stopper and spilled out the vial's contents. A dozen crystals, no larger than seeds, rattled across his hand. They shone like jewels in the candlelight, so purple that he found himself thinking about the amethysts in his mother's jewels and clothes.

He touched one of the crystals lightly with the tip of his little finger.

"Such a small thing to hold the power of life and death," Maester Walys had told him when he gave him the poisons. "It was made from a certain plant that grew only on the islands of the Jade Sea, half a world away. The leaves had to be aged, and soaked in a wash of limes and sugar water and certain rare spices from the Summer Isles. Afterward they could be discarded, but the potion must be thickened with ash and allowed to crystallize. The process was slow and difficult, the necessaries costly and hard to acquire. The alchemists of Lys knew the way of it, though, and the Faceless Men of Braavos... and the maesters of Citadels as well, though it was not something talked about beyond the walls of the Citadel. All the world knew that a maester forged his silver link when he learned the art of healing — but the world preferred to forget that men who knew how to heal also knew how to kill."

Andrew had looked at the maester with wide eyes. He had never imagined that calm and brilliant maester Walys was capable of taking people's lives.

He never knew the name the Asshai'i gave the leaf, or the Lysene poisoners the crystal. Maester Walys had simply called It as the strangler. Dissolved in wine, it would make the muscles of a man's throat clench tighter than any fist, shutting off his windpipe. They said a victim's face turned as purple as the little crystal seed from which his death was grown, but so too did a man choking on a morsel of food.

It may not be of help right now. He dropped the crystals back Into the vial and kept it back in its place. He skipped past the next two rows and took a red vial with a lid fashioned in the shape of a manticore head. Of all the jars and vials before him Andrew was wary of the manticore venom the most. Where the other poisons came were all prepared by the use of natural means the manticore venom was prepared by means of darker stuff.

The venom was extracted from manticore but it was thickened with sorcery and spells to work against different creatures even magical ones.

When Andrew heard that Maester Walys knew to use spells, he had never believed him at first.

The thin maester had regarded him with cool grey eyes. "A maester forges his chain in the Citadel of Oldtown. It's a chain because you swear to serve, and it's made of different metals because you serve the realm and the realm has different sorts of people. Every time you learn something you get another link. Black iron is for ravenry, silver for healing, gold for sums and numbers. I don't remember them all."

Walys slid a finger up under his collar and began to turn it, inch by inch. He had a thick robe for a small man, and the chain was tight, but a few pulls had it all the way around. "This is Valyrian steel," he said when the link of dark grey metal lay against his chest. "Only one maester in a hundred wears such a link. This signifies that I have studied what the Citadel calls the higher mysteries—magic, for want of a better word. A fascinating pursuit, but of small use, which is why so few maesters trouble themselves with it.

"All those who study the higher mysteries try their own hand at spells, soon or late. I yielded to the temptation too, I must confess it. Well, I was a boy, and what boy does not secretly wish to find hidden powers in himself? I got no more for my efforts than a thousand boys before me and thousand since. But the old powers are waking now, my king."

Andrew wondered if his father ever knew that maester Walys knew spells. He would have known, he decided then. His father had known the maester as a boy even before he became king. He should've known.

He sat down with his back against the wall and waited for dawn. As he waited, he sharpened the spearhead with a piece of stone, taking a queer comfort from the scrape of steel on stone. He removed the lid from the vial containing the manticore venom and spilled the venom carefully over the spearhead and coating the steel with it. He kept the spear point facing away from him knowing that a single cut could lead to a slow and agonizing death.

He slept for a while and woke up to the dreams of blood and death. Andrew took his waterskin out and had a large drink from It. He was washing his face when he heard a faint whisper of voices in the air. Andrew pushed himself up and walked to the window and peered down. The yard was filled with the castle's household, all huddled in their cloaks. From the top they looked like gargoyles standing in the dark. But gargoyles did not talk nor did they weep. He wondered how many of the innocents were standing there fearing the punishment.

He had asked his men to show themselves out as the murderers so that the innocent people won't be punished. But even that meant bad for the ones who took the blame. They are innocents too and they might very well be put to death for his actions if he fails.

Andrew looked up to the skies and searched desperately for the dragon. The sky was still grey and clear as a silent pool. There was no sign of the beast. He stood by the window and watched everything happening beneath his tower. He would have liked to hear what the Targaryen prince was saying but he was too far away from him.

He knew that trouble was brewing below when Ser Rodrik and the others came out from their hideout. Andrew saw them walk to the prince, steel in hand. He unsheathed Frost. If it came to fight the Targaryens outnumbered his men. He would not stand aside and watch them get slaughtered for his actions.

He was about to vault out of the window when a shadow rippled across his face.

Too big to be an eagle's or a raven's. In the yard the voices stilled. Every eye turned skyward. A warm wind brushed Andrew's cheeks, and above the beating of his heart he heard the sound of wings. The people below dashed for shelter. Andrew saw the Targaryen prince stand still where he stood.

Above them all the dragon turned, pale against the gloomy dawn. His scales were cream, his eyes and horns and spinal plates gold. Of all the creatures Andrew Stark had seen in his life he had never seen a larger or more magnificent one. His wings stretched twenty feet from tip to tip, pale as skin. The dragon flapped them once as he swept back above the fresh fallen snow, and the sound was like a clap of thunder. The dragon raised his head and roared, filling the morning air in terror.

Andrew leaned against the wall, hiding in the shadows. He could hear the shouts and screams from below. The spear was on the other side of the room. He rolled over to the spear and clutched it in his hand, tightly.

Andrew stayed in the shadows and looked down to see where the dragon was. The dragon was snapping at his men. How long would it take for that thing to lay waste to Winterfell, he wondered. I have to kill it before it does that.

He saw his men surrounding the dragon, raising their swords and spears above to fight. For a moment he it felt as if the dragon did not want to fight but it bared it black teeth all the same. Everyone in the yard was so occupied with the creature that none noticed him there.

The dragon was only some ten feet away from where he was. His men were doing a good job of keeping it distracted. I could make the throw right now. He gripped the spear hard and willed himself to move . . . but his legs won't. He was scared. Scared like a little boy upon seeing the dragon.

I cannot let him see my fear. If I let him see me scared, I'm good as dead. Ser Rodrik saw him from the ground when he somehow made himself to look at them again. He had a chance to thrust the poisoned spear at the dragon's neck when his long serpentine neck bent like an archer's bow. But he waited for a little too late and the moment passed. He looked at Ser Rodrik and his men again, fighting against the monster believing in their king and felt ashamed.

Ser Rodrik gazed up at him with a fond look. With that the old knight raised his spear and darted forward towards the dragon.

No, Andrew thought. I only told you to lure him towards me.

"For Winterfell," Ser Rodrik shouted and leapt onto his back and drove the iron spearpoint down at the base of the dragon's long scaled neck. He leaned into his spear, using his weight to twist the point in deeper. The dragon arched upward with a hiss of pain. His tail lashed sideways. Andrew watched his head crane around at the end of that long serpentine neck, saw his white wings unfold. Ser Rodrik lost his footing and went tumbling to the sand. He was trying to struggle back to his feet when the dragon's teeth closed hard around his forearm. He opened his mouth and a stream of pale golden fire with streaks of red engulfed Ser Rodrik.

"No" was all that he had time to shout. A dozen other women and men alike screamed as they saw the burning body of Ser Rodrik Cassel.

Ser Rodrik's spear remained in the dragon's back, wobbling as the dragon beat his wings. Smoke rose from the wound. As the other spears closed in, the dragon spat fire, bathing two of the runners in pale flame. His tail lashed sideways and caught Fat Tom creeping up behind him, breaking him in two.

The world seemed to slow as Andrew watched everything happen from atop his tower. He had asked those men to fight for him. He came all this way to . . . not to stand idle while others died for him. Andrew did not knew what he was afraid of. He never feared the dragon the whole time he stayed here.

I planned to kill the thing and I'm going to kill it. And if I'm wrong, if I die here, then . . . what more could I lose. He had nothing else to lose in this world other than his life. He would sooner throw the thing away to be with his father and mother and Joy. In the ground he saw Desmond shouting, "Me! Try me. Over here. Me!"

The dragon roared and the sound filled Winterfell. His head turned. Andrew saw that his time had come. All the training and hours spent in the yard was right for this moment. He held the spear over his shoulder and threw it at the dragon with all his might. The spear rushed past in the blink of an eye. For a moment he thought, he missed and then he heard the shrill cry rippling across the world trying to crack the earth. The beast's dying scream sounded almost human. Smoke rose from his wounded eye. His blood was smoking too, where it dripped upon the ground. He beat his wings again, sending up a choking storm of white snow. The dragon tried to claw his way up the air.

He is trying to escape, Andrew figured. He unsheathed Frost and leapt out the window and into the air. In his haste to get away from death, the dragon showed him it's most vulnerable parts, his gullet and belly where the scales were not so thick as the ones upon his body.

Andrew buried Frost right at the dragon's long throat. His heart stopped for a sudden moment as he hung there, dangling from the hilt of his sword buried deep in the dragon's throat.

His roar was full of fear and fury, full of pain. He lashed his neck right and left and spat pale fire around him. The beast gripped the tower with his black claws and inched up higher. Andrew yanked Frost down, putting all his weight at the hilt. The blade did not budge. He tried again and again and again. Frost cut through the dragon's hide halfway on his fifth try. It startled him as much as it should've done the dragon. The sword cut through the scaled neck as if it was a cheesecloth. Andrew felt the ground approaching quickly and jumped away from the dragon, twenty feet from the ground. He landed first, on a patch of old snow followed by the huge crash of the dragon behind him. His wings beat once, twice...

... and folded. The dragon gave one last hiss and stretched out flat upon his belly, dying. Gold and red the blood was flowing from the wound where Frost had opened it's gullet and half the belly, steaming where it dripped onto the snow.

The spear pressed in its neck wrenched free and fell on the ground in the crash. The point was half-melted, the iron red-hot, glowing. The air was thick with snow and ash.

When he stood up, he glimpsed the northerners and the southerners alike had gone pale and looked at him with eyes blown big and wide.

He was used to those looks so much that he did not trouble himself with it now. Desmond and the others who survived the bloody thing looked relieved that it is dead now. There was a sharp pain at his waist where he had collided with the dragon.

"Who are you?" the Targaryen prince asked looking at his dead dragon.

Andrew straightened himself, a hand clutching at his waist. "The Prince of Winterfell."

There was a sudden gasp in the croud. "It's Prince Andrew," someone whispered from the crowd. "It's His Grace," someone else said. There was a sudden shift in the crowd as they moved to his side.

His violet eyes snapped back from the dragon to gaze at him. "It's not possible."

"Dead men walk the earth now, haven't you heard?"

"It is you who killed my men?"

"Aye," Andrew told him.

It was not done yet. Jaehaerys Targaryen has more men than him. The dragon had killed four of his best men and would've killed more give more body ached terribly where he slammed into the dragon and he would not fare well in another fight. He will need the help of Ghost. Andrew hoped that the white wolf was somewhere near. He came for his aid once when he needed him the most and the need has arisen again.

"Desmond," Andrew called his guard.

"Yes, Your Grace?" the man went down to one knee.

"Open the gates."

"At once, Your Grace." He did just as he said. The gates of Winterfell were soon opened and Andrew waited for Ghost.

A Targaryen guard approached his prince. "Should we fight them, my prince?"

Jaehaerys Targaryen eyed his band with a sharp look. "Take the pretender as a prisoner. Father will deal with him." He looked at the people who were once his own. "As for the others who joined him, well, they can answer for their treasons with their lives."

The people behind him all took the weapons they could get and got ready to fight. Even with all of them it was still not enough to fight trained soldiers. He cannot hope to with this fight without Ghost.

The Targaryen guards approached him hesitantly. Before they could come half the way, a blur of white fur rushed to his side. The white wolf never made any sound and no one saw him there until he showed himself to Andrew.

Ghost circled him and put himself between Andrew and the dark cloaks. The direwolf bared his white teeth in a silent snarl and the guards stopped in their tracks when they saw Ghost before him.

"Needing the help of a wolf, Stark?" his cousin asked.

"That's gall," Andrew told him, "coming from the guy who brings in a dragon to burn innocents."

At least he had the grace to be ashamed of that. Jaehaerys looked at him again, his defeat written clear upon his face. None of his guards were brave enough to come against Ghost and none tried to check their risk.

"Now," Andrew said to his cousin. "You have nothing to worry about. I have no qualms with you. It is your father I seek. You can go back to King's Landing in peace and tell him that Eddard Stark's son is coming for him."

"Screw that," Jaehaerys told him. "The dragon does not bow before a wolf. We could end this right here and right now. Call back your wolf and let us settle this in the old way. You fight for the Starks, I fight for the Targaryens and let's end this here and now in single combat."

"I'm offering you to go back in peace even after all this."

"What's the matter Stark?" Jaehaerys asked him. "Afraid to fight your own battles? Didn't Ned Stark teach you how to duel? Didn't Ashara Dayne teach you manners? Huh, didn't mum teach you proper manners, Stark? Yeah, she was dead before you could wipe the drool off your chin."

Andrew fisted his hand, trying to contain his anger. "I'll tell you one last time. Run back to your father. I don't have any problem with you."

"My prince," a guard called his cousin. "I request you to see reason. We're lost. We can't win this fight."

"Shut up, Gwanye," Jaehaerys snapped at him. "I'll not run back to my father as a failure. Get my sword and shield."

"Yes, my prince," the guard hurried away.

Andrew turned back to the dead dragon. If he wants to have a fight, he shall have it. He found Frost still buried in the dragon's belly. When he removed the sword he saw that the sword was untouched by the heat of the dragon. Where the spears had melted off, Frost was unaffected from it.

"Do you want a shield, Your Grace?" Desmond asked him.

"No." He had never used a shield before. Using one now will probably get him killed.

His waist was still hurting whenever he moved. He would want to make this as quick as he can.

Jaehaerys Targaryen was clad in a cloth of mail and a black shield with a red dragon painted upon it. He was eager for the fight. Perhaps he sought to avenge his dragon by killing him or to earn the approval of his father.

The prince was fast, blazing fast, as quick as any man Andrew had ever fought. In those hands, the longsword became a whistling blur, a steel storm that seemed to come at him from three directions at once. Most of the cuts were aimed at his head. Jaehaerys was no fool. Without a helm and armor, Andrew was less guarded.

He blocked the blows calmly, Frost meeting each slash and turning it aside. The blades rang and rang retreated. On the edge of his vision, he saw the people watching with eyes as big and white as chicken eggs. Jaehaerys cursed and turned a high cut into a low one. Andrew found the cut at last moment and parried it away. Andrew's answering slash found the prince's left shoulder, moving past the mail to bite the flesh beneath. If there was blood it was hidden in the black tunic.

Jaehaerys was losing his temper as Frost slipped past his sword continuously to bleed him. Andrew could see it in his eyes: doubt, confusion, the beginnings of fear. The Targaryen prince came on again, screaming this time, as if sound could slay his foe where steel could not. The longsword slashed low, high, low again.

Andrew blocked the cuts without much trouble. When the Targaryen prince lunged so close to slash at his throat, Andrew darted below his sword and slashed at his calf as he emerged on the other side. Jaehaerys dropped to one knee but still slashed his blade wildly at his face. Andrew grasped his hand and slammed his elbow in his nose and pulled the blade away from his grasp. When Gwayne rushed forward coming to the aid of his prince, Ghost blocked him by putting himself between. When the loyal guard saw the direwolf he found the reason to back off.

He threw the sword away and watched the man kneeling before him, a boy. A boy, nothing more than his own sixteen years. Vengeance would've had him cut down but he had turned from that path a while ago.

"Desmond," Andrew called.

"Your Grace."

"Put him in irons," Andrew commanded. "We'll decide what to do with him after."

When the Targaryen prince and his men were bound and taken, it was Maester Walys to come before him and kneel at first. As he stood there, sword in hand with Ghost beside him, one by one the entire household of Winterfell dropped down to one knee and bowed their heads. Andrew looked over to the walls. The dragon banners of the Targaryens were pulled down and in their places the Stark direwolf once again flapped proudly. The wolves are back again, Andrew Stark thought and there was only one shout from the throats of all the people there, which seemsd to tremble the entire castle. "Stark, Stark, Stark."


	50. Chapter 50

_**Andrew**_

Winterfell was full of ghosts for Andrew Stark.

This was not the castle he remembered from the summer of his youth. This place was scarred and broken, more pain than comfort, a haunt of crows and mists. The great double curtain wall and the castle inside the walls still stood, but there was something missing from it. Something which had been there once but not now. Andrew knew exactly what it was. For years he had dreamed about taking Winterfell back and standing in his home once again, but now that he is here he doesn't want to walk in. Too much pain. He has not even visited his parents' room. When he was a little boy he had loved to stay in that room and go to sleep with his parents, listening to his mother's song. Without them even that room is not so fond for him anymore.

A few towers in the first keep had collapsed in his battle with the dragon. The thatch and timber had been consumed by dragonfire, in whole or in part. Under the glass panes of the Glass Garden his mother's roses had frozen and withered, the fruits and vegetables that would have fed the castle during the winter were dead and black. Andrew wondered what did he miss the most? The people who died, the unbroken towers, granite untouched by dragonfire. . . mother's love and father's care? It was them he missed the most, Eddard Stark and Ashara Dayne. He would've happily lived anywhere with his father and mother but without them even Winterfell felt like a ruin.

Plumes of grey smoke snaked up from the rebuilt kitchens and reroofed barracks keep. The battlements and crenellations were crowned with snow. All the color had been leached from Winterfell until only grey and white remained. The Stark colors. Andrew did not know whether he ought to find that ominous or reassuring. Even the sky was grey. Grey and grey and greyer. The whole world grey, everywhere you look.

All about the yard, Winterfell was crawling with people doing dozens of works. None was standing idle except for Andrew Stark. Everytime they chance to see him they bowed and muttered a happy 'Your Grace.'

They had raised the Stark direwolf above the walls of Winterfell as the wind came howling from the north. It was a comforting sight to see the Stark banner flapping in the wind. It had taken the lives of many good men to get that banner to stream proudly from the top again. Ser Rodrik and the others, he had them buried in the old licheyard where they might rest peacefully.

The corpse of the dragon had been burned and the bones all collected in a sack. He would return them to Jaehaerys, the prince had earned them at least. He had cut off the head, that might serve him though. I made myself the Dragonslayer, he thought, and from that came all of this. He might even have made himself a kinslayer but for her.

Andrew kept his eyes downcast as he crossed the yard, weaving between the people. I played in this yard, learned to swing a sword in this yard, he thought, remembering warm summer days playing with his father and mother, sparring under the watchful eyes of old Ser Rodrik. That was back when he was whole, when he still knew how to laugh and smile.

As he passed beneath the gatehouse portcullis, Andrew put two fingers into his mouth and whistled. Ghost came loping across the yard. He felt warm and happy in the presence of the white wolf. It comforted him to think that part of his family was still with him in the form of Ghost.

It was warmer in the godswood. Andrew Stark was no stranger to this godswood. He had played here as a boy, skipping stones across the cold black pool beneath the weirwood, hiding his treasures in the bole of an ancient oak, climbing up the great weirwood in the center. Once he learned to swim, he had bathed in the hot springs after many a days playing in the yard. In amongst these chestnuts and elms and soldier pines he had found secret places where he could hide. The first prayer he ever said had been here, before the brooding face of the weirwood. His parents used to spend many nights here and he would accompany them whenever he could.

Andrew made his way through the dense stands of oak and ironwood and sentinels, to the still pool beside the heart tree. He stopped under the thick white branches of the weirwood and its red leaves. A faint breeze blew past him, the dark red leaves brushing against his face.

Across the godswood, beneath the windows of the Guest House, an underground hot spring fed three small ponds. Steam rose from the water day and night, and the wall that loomed above was thick with moss. Andrew had soaked in the pools for hours long and loved the bubbles which rose from the murky green depths to break upon the surface. Today he did not find that interest though.

Ghost lapped at the water and settled down at Andrew's side. He rubbed the wolf under the jaw, and for a moment him and the wolf both felt at peace. Andrew had always liked the godswood, Even the heart tree and the quietness no longer scared him the way it used to the littlee boy. The deep red eyes carved into the pale trunk still watched him, yet somehow he took comfort from that now. The gods were looking over him, he told himself; the old gods, gods of the Starks and the First Men and the children of the forest, his father's gods. He felt safe in their sight, and the deep silence of the trees helped him think.

Andrew found himself wondering if he should say a prayer. Will the old gods hear me if I do? They were his father's gods. Once they were his gods too but he had lost his faith in gods ever since that day at Starfall. And that night in Braavos didn't help as well. I loved a maid sweet as summer but Winter is coming.

"Andrew," a voice seemed to whisper.

His head snapped up. "Father. Are you here?" All he could see were the trees and the fog that covered them. The voice had been as faint as rustling leaves, as stron as steel. A god's voice, or a ghost's.

Suddenly he did not want to be here.

Once outside the godswood the cold descended on him like a ravening wolf and caught him in its teeth. He lowered his head into the wind and made for the Great Hall, and then he remembered one more place he wished to see. A Stark place.

He crossed the Guest House and reached the Glass Gardens. When his father ruled Winterfell, the Glass Gardens had been the loveliest place in the entire castle. Queen Ashara herself took care of the garden and there were a dozen colors of roses stretched out to the ends. Andrew would come here with his mother everyday to pluck roses for her. Vynce the man at the gardens would give him berries everytime he visits. It was only a ruin now. There were no roses or flowers to light up the garden.

Vynce was fitting some of the removed glass panes back in its place. "Your Grace," he bowed his head when he saw Andrew. "I would give you berries if only we had some."

Andrew chuckled. "I need some flowers. Roses would be the best."

"Of course, Your Grace," Vynce said and moved to the left corner where some plants were still alive, half concealed from the sun. The twilight blooms, the rarest of all the flowers, had been Queen Ashara Dayne's favorite. The rare violet rose blooms only in the twilight and would glow in twilight. It had a sweet fruity scent which would swoon a maiden's mind in a sniff. He had thought to take some of the roses but there were no twilight blooms to be seen. There were some winter roses though. That would do. His mother loved roses no matter what color they were.

"We've not used the gardens for years now, Your Grace," Vynce said as he plucked the roses, "but I've been taking care of these flowers in honor of your mother. Brilliant woman she was. Had a mind for gardening and everything else, of course."

Andrew touched one blue petal of the rose. That was true, he thought. The north had thrived under his mother as the Queen in the North. She ruled the north as much as his father did. Queen Ashara the Benevolent, she was called by the people of the north and she deserved that name to the very end.

"We never got your... their bones from the south, my lord," Vynce said. "The dragons forbid us to speak the Stark name. But the north remembers, Your Grace. We remember the Stark name."

He picked up more roses and secured them gingerly in his other hand. When Vynce had removed half of the flowers from the plants, he bound them with a plume of pale blue silk and gave it to him. "Here you go, Your Grace."

"Thank you," Andrew said. He got the winter roses in hand and walked out of the gardens. Ghost followed him out silently.

The door to the crypts was frozen shut. He had to pull it open, hinges screaming, to reveal stone steps spiraling down into darkness.

He got a torch and stepped down the spiral steps to the cold vault under the earth. Ghost followed behind him red eyes shining in the dark.

Andrew could not recall the last time he had been in the crypts. It had been before, for certain. When he was little, he used to come down here with father to meet grandfather and uncle.

Then the vault always seemed so dark and scary. Now it didn't scare him so. Ghost stalked out in the echoing gloom, then stopped, lifted his head, and sniffed the chill dead air. He bared his teeth and crept backward, eyes glowing red in the light of his torch. It's just death, Andrew thought. I've seen more of them in my life.

He could feel the stone kings staring down at him with their stone eyes, stone fingers curled around the hilts of rusted longswords.

They were the Kings of Winter and the Kings in the North for thousands of years, all the grim folk who sat here. Andrew lifted the torch high so the light shone on the stone faces. Some were hairy and bearded, shaggy men fierce as the wolves that crouched by their feet. Others were shaved clean, their features gaunt and sharp-edged as the iron longswords across their laps. He strode briskly down the vault, past the procession of stone pillars and the endless carved figures. A tongue of flame trailed back from the upraised torch as he went.

The vault was cavernous, longer than Winterfell itself, and his mother had told him once that there were other levels underneath, vaults even deeper and darker where the older kings were buried. It would not do to lose the light. Ghost followed him hesitantly from the steps, always stopping and sniffing the air for any future dangers.

He looked at the passing faces and the tales came back to him. The maester had told him the stories, and Old Nan had made them come alive. He remembered Jon Stark. When the sea raiders landed in the east, he had driven them out and built the castle at White Harbor. Jon's son was Rickard Stark, not his father's father but another Rickard who took the Neck away from the Marsh King and married his daughter. He found Theon Stark by the thin look and the long hair and skinny beard. People called him the 'Hungry Wolf,' because he was always at war. The tall one with the dreamy face was a Brandon... Brandon the Shipwright. He had loved the sea. His tomb was only an empty hole because he had sailed beyond the Sunset Sea and his body was lost to the sea. Andrew wondered if his father's tomb is as empty as Brandon's. He hoped not. His son's tomb stood next. Brandon the Burner, he had put the torch to all his father's ships in grief. There stood King Edrick Snowbeard, who had ruled the north for a hundred years. There's Rodrik Stark, who had won Bear Island in a wrestling match and gave it to the Mormonts. And then there was Torrhen Stark, the King Who Knelt. He had been the last King in the North and the first Lord of Winterfell, after he yielded to Aegon the Conqueror, until his father declared independence from the Targaryens. He was almost at the end now, and Andrew felt a sadness creeping over him. In the end far away from the ancient kings sat his grandfather, Lord Rickard, who was burned by Mad King Aerys. His uncle Brandon stood in a tomb beside him. He was not supposed to have statue. Statues had been only for the lords and the kings, but his father had loved his brother so much that he had it done.

Next to them, two tombs were closely grouped together as if they were trying to stay together all the way to eternity. That was where he halted. He put the torch in a sconce mounted up on the wall. The statues loomed above him. He remembered them well enough to make out at every features. His father was to his left- long-faced, bearded, solemn. He had the same stone eyes as the rest, but his looked sad. A stone likeness of his bronze and iron crown was set atop his brow.

His mother stood beside him as she had always been. Even in stone her features were smooth and lively. She was lovely even in this cold, dark place. He brushed the back of his hand against her cheek, tenderly as if it was flesh and not stone.

Andrew placed the pale blue roses at her feet. He gazed up at them in silence not knowing what to say or do. Memories came back to him sweet as mother's milk. He remembered the good days from the past where he ran around happily with them. It made him happy to think about and then sad.

Andrew sank against them, tears running past his cheeks. "I miss you both," he whispered to them. He saw something move out of the corner of his eye. Andrew brushed of the tears in his sleeve and stepped back from the statues. Had he heard a noise? Was there someone here? Ghost came shooting from the dimness behind him. He bared his white teeth, blood red eyes watching the blackness of the vault.

"Who goes there?" Andrew called.

"It's me, my lord," Maester Walys stepped in the light of his torch, breathless and panting for air. "Lost the light on the way."

"Maester Walys?" Andrew asked.

"I knew you would be here, Your Grace," the grey man said. "I had to see you."

Andrew turned back to his parents.

"We never got their bones, Your Grace," the maester told him, "but we had their statues set up here anyway. You were supposed to be with them but we never had the chance to do it after Jaehaerys came. I suppose that's good now that you're here. . . alive." He took out something from the sleeves of his robes. It took some time for Andrew to see it in the flickering light.

In his hands was a crown, a bronze circlet ringed by iron swords. Andrew knew it at once he saw it. "Father's crown?"

"Yes," Walys told him. "Your father gave it to me when you went south. He told me that it has no reason to be in the south. Ever since then I've kept it safe waiting for someone to wear it. Now it is yours, Your Grace." Andrew took the crown in his hands, his fingers stroking the blades testing their sharpness. They were still very sharp. His father had the right of it. It was the crown of the north and it belonged in the north.

It was the crown of the Stark kings of old; an open circlet of hammered bronze incised with the runes of the First Men, surmounted by nine black iron spikes wrought in the shape of longswords. Bronze and iron were the metals of winter, dark and strong to fight against the cold.

Andrew gazed at the crown in his hands in silence. He had seen the crown on his father's head many times before. It had made a glorified sight. He did not know if he was fit to wear the crown after all he had done.

"You should come see the castle, my lord," Maester Walys said breaking the silence of the crypts. "We've prepared your father's chambers for you."

They belong to my father, not to me, he wanted to say. "I'll be there," he said instead.

There was one thing he had to do before visiting his parents' room.

He had given his chief captive a large room in Winterfell to act as his cell. The first thing Andrew had done after claiming Winterfell was to remove the Targaryen prince from the chambers of his father. He had not entered the room himself but has ordered the men to clear Jaehaerys' things from there. Wick and Denton stood guard at the door where his cousin was locked away. Andrew asked Wick to open the door. When the door opened with an audible creak, Andrew slipped inside and asked Wick to close the door behind him. A half eaten black bread and crumbs of often biscuits were still left on the plate given to him. A skin of wine lay uncorked on the table beside his bed. The faint odor of wine greeted him.

In one corner of the room a heap of furs was piled up against the makeshift bed.

The furs stirred as the door was closed behind him. Some of the furs had gone ragged and patched together. An arm emerged, then a face—pale silver hair, tangled and matted and browned with dirt, two fierce eyes, a nose, a mouth. Dirt caked the prisoner's hair, wet with sweat. "Stark." His voice croaked, echoing around them in the closed room. "Have you come to kill me?"

Is that why I came here? he wondered. Somehow he think not.

"You are my prisoner. My father never condoned the murders of prisoners unlike yours." Andrew let that hang for a moment, then said, "I came here to see you."

Jaehaerys Targaryen's lips skinned back from his teeth. "Why did you want to see me?" Though he was only a boy, he had been a strong prince when he went into the captivity. Andrew hoped that his time in the cell would've changed him a bit.

Andrew sat himself on the chair near the table. "I'm sending you to the Wall."

His cousin looked as if he did not believe it. "You can't. My father is king."

"Not for long."

Jaehaerys pushed himself to his feet and kicked aside the furs clinging to his ankles. "You're a fool to believe it. You can't face the might of House Targaryen."

"Say that to your dragon," Andrew told him.

Jaehaerys's hands closed into fists. There was a sudden uncertainty in the dragon prince's face then.

When he was silent, Andrew continued. "Everyday you are here it is dangerous for you," he told Jaehaerys. "The people expect me to cut off your head and send it to your father. There were complains of some nasty business with dragons. I can't allow you to walk away just like that after this."

"So you are sending me to the Wall," Jaehaerys said. "To join the Night's Watch."

"It is a better offer than the one your father gave mine," he said.

Jaehaerys slumped his shoulders in defeat. The prince didn't even try to look at his face.

Andrew took the wooden wolf toy from his jacket and threw it at Jaehaerys' foot. The toy landed with a thump and came to rest hitting Jaehaerys' foot. The prince eyed at the wolf and then looked up to face him.

"That is the first toy I ever remember holding." he told Jaehaerys. "It was a gift from my uncle Arthur. He brought it for me the second time he visited me. Eight years have passed since I left it here and now, this is the only thing left in this castle that belonged to me eight years ago. You can't even stand any presence that reminds me now, can you?"

Jaehaerys did not dare to look up from the wolf, lying abandoned near his legs. He wondered what the prince was thinking. It had been hard for him to fight against his own family, to fight against the ones whom he believed as family once. He wondered if it had been hard for his cousin as well or if Jaehaerys Targaryen was still thinking for a way to kill him.

"Once I may have even thought of you as brothers," Andrew continued. "Now I realise how stupid I had been to even think that."

"Why did you leave my alive?"Jaehaerys asked after a paused silence.

It was hard to think about it. To think about her and everything. Was this how hard for my father when he was forced to fight his sister's family? It only made him sad to dwell in the past. He straightened himself. "Trust me, had I been the boy I was I would've loped off your head the first moment I got," Andrew said to him. "But someone once told me that, killing is not always the only solution. And you're only alive because of her."

He doubted if he had made the right decision by sparing him. Perhaps I should make his head a gift for Rhaegar and Lyanna as the others say and be done with it, Andrew thought, but something inside told him otherwise. He is only a boy and had nothing to do with the sins of his father. Andrew wondered what his father would do, how his mother would handle this, how his uncle might deal with this. But Eddard Stark and Ashara Dayne were dead, so was Uncle Arthur and the others.

"Anyway enough of that," Andrew said. "When a man takes the black, his crimes are wiped away. Take the black and join the Night's Watch and none could call you guilty."

Jaehaerys thought about it for a moment and looked up at him. " What about my men?"

"They will be given the freedom to choose their fate," said Andrew. "They can either go with you to the Wall or they can go back to your father."

"When do I leave?"

"Today," he told Jaehaerys. "The northern lords will be coming here soon enough. It is not good for you if you're still here when they come. Gather your belongings as soon as you can, come to the yard."

He got up from the chair and turned to leave. "Andrew." Andrew was at the door when Jaehaerys called him, by his name. He looked over his shoulder to see him standing beside the wolf. "My father will never go down without a fight."

Andrew looked at him quietly. "I don't want him to," he said after a moment.

By evening the yard was packed to see the Targaryen prince leave. Andrew stood with Maester Walys and Desmond. Jaehaerys was flanked by his remaining men, all huddled up waiting for judgement.

"Jaehaerys Targaryen," Andrew called, "for the crimes you've committed against House Stark and the north, I'm sending you to the Wall."

There was a sudden murmur in the crowd. Andrew ignored it and looked to the Targaryen guards. "You all can join your prince to serve with him in the Wall or you can go back to King's Landing."

The dark cloaks looked at each other's faces and stood quietly. After a deep quietness has passed through the yard, one of the guards stepped forward. "Your Grace," the man went to one knee before him. "I wish to join my prince to take the black."

"You would do no such thing, Gwayne," Jaehaerys told the man from behind. "This is my sword to bear, my cup to drink from. You'll take the others and leave."

Gwayne looked back at his prince. "The men know there way back as well as I do, my prince."

"Go back, Gwayne. Its an order."

"For once I wish to see how it is to disobey your order, my prince," Gwayne said.

"Is there anything I can say to change your mind?" Jaehaerys asked his loyal man.

"I don't think so."

With that he knew Gwayne would join Jaehaerys wherever he went. He was astonished by the loyalty of the man. Not everyone would join the Night's Watch and share the black cloak for another man's sentence. "Very well then," Andrew looked at his cousin. "I believe I have something of yours."

Wick rolled a wooden cart to Jaehaerys. The cart was nearly filled with the bones of the dragon. The bones rattled when the cart came to rest. The black bones were dark and shining in the evening light. Jaehaerys' hand ghosted over the bones as if he was imagining touching his dragon, alive and well. He gave one last wistful look at them black bones and turned to his men.

"Gerrick, take them back to Dragonstone, will you?" When Gerrick nodded he could see a faint smile dancing at the lips of his cousin. "If that's all we are ready to leave." Jaehaerys looked at him waiting for his orders.

Andrew nodded and the gates were opened for them. Two parties parted to the opposite ways as they passed through the gates, one turning south and the other, small party, turned north.

Andrew watched them go from the top of the gatehouse. The Stark direwolf flapped very much near him that he could hear the sound of the banner swaying from the pole. In the crenellations, they had raised a pike for a good twenty feet above the surface. Even from down here he could make out the long, sharp teeth and the hole where an eye of the dragon had been once.

He stood there with the dragon head, gazing into the air for a long time after both the parties have vanished from sight. He had sent his own men with letters bearing his own seal and sign to escort them safely to their destinations. Andrew hoped that they come back safe.

As the stars started to light up the sky, Andrew Stark walked down the steps and made for the Great Keep. The day has already given too much of the painful memories and he was ready to face the last of it.

The lord's chambers had been completely changed by the Targaryens. He did not remember the room as it had been in his father's days. All the furnishings were new, brought up from the south. The canopy bed had a feather mattress and drapes of blood-red velvet instead of the old grey. Andrew pulled the red clothes down and replaced them with the grey he got from Poole.

His father's chair was still there though, carved of black oak with a grey leather seat. The table he once remembered seeing had been filled with papers but now the only things it held were plates and flagons of wine. There was nothing in this castle which belonged from his childhood. There was nothing left there that had belonged to his parents.

He found an old dusty chest in one corner of the room. Andrew crossed the room and wiped the dust off the chest. The box was stoutly made and bound with iron, and it had no lock.

Inside, Andrew found the paintings of his father and mother done by a myrish painter when he was still a baby. The painting were dusted, seemingly forgotten for years but they were not marred by time. Beneath the paintings, a fur-trimmed cloak and a lilac velvet gown were bundled up together.

He draped the cloak over his shoulders. The cloak fit him perfectly. Andrew found the presence of the cloak soothing. He pressed the gown against his chest. The smell of roses was still heavy in it. The velvet fabric was warm, as warm as his mother's kisses. He felt loved and happy with his father's cloak and his mother's gown around him.

Andrew hung both the paintings behind his bed and stood back. Both Eddard Stark and Ashara Dayne were happy in the paintings. He wished they were happy even now. He pushed back the sheets covering his bed and draped his father's cloak and mother's gown over them. When he finally slipped into them, he fell asleep with the fragrance and warmth of his mother and the comfort of his father around him, with them watching over him as he had once gone to sleep eight years before.


	51. Chapter 51

_**Edric**_

The Boltons were spreading out to encircle the castle Hornwood. It was hard to judge their numbers. A five hundred at least; perhaps twice that many. Against their own three hundred Hornwood men. They'd brought catapults and scorpions. He saw no siege towers rolling towards the castle though. There will be no seige, Edric knew that, the bastard of Bolton will have war. 'Lord Ramsay will come for war,' the bastard's pet had told them before he was hanged. Somehow Edric believed him.

He studied their banners from the walls of Hornwood. The flayed man of the Dreadfort flapped bravely wherever he looked, all naked and bloody. Their own army was massing inside the castle, proud northerners wearing the bull moose of the Hornwoods proudly. It felt almost queer to fight under the arms of a house after fighting without a banner for years. They were waiting for the sun to set to begin their assault on Ramsay Snow.

The bastard has long since threatened to claim the Hornwood land to his own. When Lord Halys came for the help of Lord Beric, the lightning lord had chosen to aid them and keep the king's justice. The Wanderer himself had deemed the bastard of Bolton unworthy to live after hearing his slyness and cruelty. By dawn, Ramsay Snow would be brought to justice and if the leech lord has something to say about it he is very much likely to follow his bastard to grave.

Lord Beric, Rodrick and Thoros had gone out to join Lord Manderly's force in Sheepshead Hill. He hoped that they made it to them alive. Without the Manderly soldiers, they would very likely get overwhelmed by the Bolton numbers. Ramsay Snow had at least twice the numbers they had inside the castle. They might hold them off for sometime but once the walls were breached the tide might turn against them.

Edric should've gone with Lord Beric himself but the Lightning lord had tasked him to stay with the Hornwoods. They were to lead the army outside to meet the Boltons once Lord Beric comes with the Manderly knights. Edric was to lead the eastern column himself but they have to survive till Lord Beric arrives with his men.

Tom was with him along with Lem and Anguy. The singer was perched upon the guard tower on the walls, pulling the strings of his woodharp he cradled against his jerkin, as a mother might cradle a babe. A small man and fifty but Tom was still a dangerous man with his axe and throwing knives. He had a big mouth quite useful for singing, a sharp nose, and thinning brown hair. His song came drifting along the evening air from the little rise of the guard tower on the walls. "Off to Gulltown to see the fair maid, heigh-ho, heigh-ho..." He was already ready for fight. His faded greens were mended here and there with old leather patches, and he wore a brace of throwing knives on his hip and a woodman's axe slung across his back. Tom always like to sing before a fight. 'There are worse things than dying with a song on your lips' he had told him once when Edric asked about it.

"Do you think Lord Beric has met with the Manderly knights?" Edric asked him.

The singer idly plucked a string. "Lord Beric has found his way back from hells more than once. Surely a walk in the shadow of the hills is not so hard for him."

"He told he will be here by sundown." Edric looked to the west where the sky had already gone to the color of a bruise.

"With or without the lightning lord we'll kill the bastard of Bolton," Lem said in the deep voice of his.

Lem stood a good foot taller than Tom, and had the look of a soldier. A longsword and dirk hung from his studded leather belt, rows of overlapping steel rings were sewn onto his shirt, and his black iron halfhelm shaped like a cone was in his hands. He was picking his bad teeth with a thin straw. His bushy brown beard was shaggy, but it was his hooded yellow cloak that drew the eye of most men. Thick and heavy, stained here with grass and there with blood, frayed along the bottom and patched with deerskin on the right shoulder, the greatcloak gave the big man the look of some huge yellow bird. The cloak itself got him the name Lem Lemoncloak.

Tom Sevenstrings strummed his harp. "We'll hold the castle," he said. "The bastard will rush and break his host against the walls. And our Archer here will make them bleed every time they come near."

Anguy strummed the string of his longbow. "I might have found some decent archers in Lord Hornwood's host." He was as skinny as his longbow if not quite as tall and Edric was yet to see a better marksman than Anguy. He doubted if would ever see one though. Red-haired and freckled, he wore a studded brigantine, high boots, fingerless leather gloves, and a quiver on his back. His arrows were fletched with grey goose feathers, and six of them stood in the ground before him, like a little fence against the wall. "We might take a good number down if we had the light."

"You will," Tom said and went to singing again. "I'll steal a sweet kiss with the point of my blade, heigh-ho, heigh-ho."

"What do you think the Wanderer will do after this?" Anguy asked.

"I think he'll go for Winterfell," Lem said.

"Not before the dragon," Tom sang the words as if they were parts of the song.

"The dragon will be a problem, I tell you," Lem said.

"Not unlike anything we have seen before," said Anguy. "We'll have Thoros and the Lightning lord with us."

Edric wondered if the red priest could take down the dragon. He could, maybe, after all he brings dead men to life. If Thoros could bring that dragon down they'll have an easy time capturing Winterfell.

"Let's just think about what's at hand now, shall we?" Tom glanced toward the Bolton camp. "The bastard has done things bad if not worse as the Targaryens. He killed Old Pate just because the man wouldn't move his wagon quickly."

Edric had known Old Pate. The old man had been a good friend of their brotherhood ever since he knew him.

"I buried Old Pate myself," Tom continued, "right there under that sentinal beside his house he very much loved to sit under." He drew a sad sound from his harp. "We've buried many a good man this past year, and I mean to stop Bolton's bastard before the dragon."

"Patience, Tom," Edric told him. "Besides if Ramsay Snow ever shows up I believe Anguy here will fill him with arrows before he could even draw his sword."

The archer's hand moved quicker than Edric would have believed. His shaft went hissing past his head within an inch of his ear and buried itself in the wooden rail behind him. "It'll only take one," Anguy said as the arrow thrummed behind her like a bee.

Tom chuckled and went back to his song again. "I'll make her my love and we'll rest in the shade, heigh-ho, heigh-ho." As dusk began to settle over the world, the song swelled louder with every word.

As the sun moved, the shadow of the guard tower moved as well, gradually lengthening, a blackk arm reaching out for Edric Dayne. By the time the sun touched the wall, he was in its grasp.

It was when the warhorn sounded. Harooooooh... The sound split through Tom's song.

The Hornwood men on the castle walls blew their own horns, calling up the men for battle.

"Shit," Lem said and donned his helm.

Anguy picked up his arrows and secured them in his quiver. Tom dropped down from the tower already with his axe in hand. There was a little commotion down in the yard and a murmur amongst the men.

"Prepare to defend the castle," Edric shouted to them.

Lord Halys came forth dressed in mail and a tunic displaying his sigil over the mail. "Prepare to fight," he told his men. "The bastard of Bolton is coming to take our lands, our castle, our freedom. Nothing good is going to happen with him inside our walls. Fight with me and throw him away."

A cheer went through the men which relieved Edric somewhat. He wondered when Lord Beric will come. He hoped it would be so soon.

"Archers, with me," Anguy yelled and a group of guys followed him at once. He divided them and put half on one guard tower and took the rest with him to the other tower.

Edric looked from the parapets. For a moment he thought the forest was full of lantern bugs. Then he realized they were men with torches.

A column of riders moved between the trees and tents toward the castle.

Firelight glittered off metal helms and spattered their mail and plate with orange and yellow highlights. One carried a banner on a tall lance. The flayed man of the Boltons flowing in the night air. Everything seemed red or black or orange.

Edric saw a tree consumed by fire, the flames creeping across its branches until it stood against the night in robes of living orange. Everyone was awake now, manning the catwalks or struggling with the frightened animals below. He could hear Lord Halys and his son shouting commands.

The riders reined up before the gates. "You in the holdfast!" shouted a man in dark armor. His rounded helm gleamed a sullen red, and a pale pink cloak streamed from his shoulders.. "Open, in the name of the king!"

"Aye, and which king is that?" Lem yelled back down.

Edric climbed the battlement beside the gate, his sword still in its sheath. "You men hold down here!" he shouted. "You have no reason to be here."

"And who are you, boy? One of Lord Beric's cravens?" called the man in red helm. "If that fool Thoros is in there, ask him how he likes these fires." The torchlight glittered off the chipped enamel of his visor. His helm and gorget were wrought in the shape of a man's face and shoulders, skinless and bloody, mouth open in a silent howl of anguish.

"Lord Beric and Thoros are not here," Edric shouted back.

"Open the gates and give me my Reek back and I might leave you alone."

Lord Halys spat. "Come now, bastard. We'll send you to him."

"So be it. You chose to fight, and fight and die you shall."

"Let no one alive." Ramsay raised a languid fist, and his men drew sword all at once. Anguy and his archers attacked at once. Edric saw the arrows take down some of the men slow enough to block them with the shield.

"Storm the walls and kill them all," Ramsay said in a bored voice. More spears and arrows flew back and forth. From outside came the rattle of armor, the scrape of swords on scabbards, the banging of spears on shields, mingled with curses and the hoofbeats of racing horses. A torch sailed spinning above their heads, trailing fingers of fire as it thumped down in the dirt of the yard.

"Blades!" Edric shouted drawing his sword. "Spread apart, defend the wall wherever they hit. Lem take some men with you and hold the postern. Tom go to Lord Halys."

Edric stood his ground and waited. He saw a hand grasping the top of the parapet. He could see it by the light of the fires, so clear that it was as if time had stopped. The fingers were blunt, callused, wiry black hairs grew between the knuckles, there was dirt under the nail of the thumb. He waited, sword at the ready and the top of a pothelm loomed up behind the hand.

He slashed down hard, and the castle-forged steel bit in between the shoulder blades. Blood spurted, scream echoed, and the helmed face vanished as suddenly as it had appeared. The second man was bearded and helmetless, his dirk between his teeth to leave both hands free for climbing. As he swung his leg over the parapet, he drove the point of his sword at his eyes. His sword pushed through his skull as if it was cheese; the man reeled backward and fell. Every next time someone tried to climb their part of the wall, Edric hacked at their hands and sent them back away the way they had come.

Ramsay had very few ladders, the fool had somehow thought that they would meet him in the field when the castle stood strong for their defense. But there seemed to be no end to the foes. For each one Edric cut or stabbed or shoved back, another was coming over the wall. Ramsay Snow reached the rampart. Edric picked up a spear from a fallen man, and forced the point of the spear through his armor while the man was hacking wildly at him. When four men assaulted the gate with axes, Anguy shot them down with arrows, one by one. Tom hacked off a man's hand off the walk, and threw a pair of throwing knives at two men, one after the other. Edric jumped over a dead boy no older than him, lying with his arm cut off. He didn't know if he had done it, but he wasn't sure. He saw a Hornwood man fall to Ramsay. Another had his face smashed in with a spiked mace. Everything smelled of blood and smoke and iron, but after a time it seemed like that was only one smell. He never saw how the skinny man got over the wall, but when he did he fell on him. He hacked at the man's scrawny neck and sent him away from the wall.

When the skinny man was dead, Edric leapt down into the yard to fight some more. He saw steel shadows running through the holdfast, firelight shining off mail and blades, and he knew that they'd gotten over the wall somewhere, or broken through at the postern. He could see Lem smashing a man's head with a rock. The night rang to the clash of steel and the cries of the wounded and dying. Death was all around him.

They were being overwhelmed. Somehow more and more of the Boltons found themselves inside the walls and more of their own men were dying. "Stick together," he yelled. "Don't let them break you. Move forward. Now!"

Ramsay and his riders were trying to bring down the front gate down. If they got the gates down, it is done. "Hold the gate!" he shouted.

"Hold the gate," Lord Halys echoed.

Anguy jumped down from the tower. He ran along the wall, loosing arrows bringing down two of the men ramming the gates. That provided them some time but it was not enough though.

It was only then that he heard the riders pouring out the castle gate in a river of steel and fire, the thunder of their destriers crossing the forest ground louder than the sounds around. Men and mounts wore plate armor, and one in every ten carried a torch. The rest had axes, longaxes with spiked heads and heavy bone-crushing armor-smashing blades.

More and more riders were emerging from the forest, a column four wide with no end to it, knights and squires and freeriders, torches and longaxes.

When Edric looked around, he saw that the man at their head smashing through the Bolton army right up their back. His black cloak blended easily with the night but soon blood smeared on it as he killed men left and right. Lord Beric, Edric thought. He could recognise the man anywhere. Dark shapes moved in front of the flames, the steel of their armor shining orange from afar.

"Open the gates," Edric shouted. "We'll finish them off together."

Hinges creaked and chains rattled as the gate was opened. The Bolton men knew that they were done and some flew from the fight not so far though as their men rode them down. Edric saw Thoros knocking Ramsay off his horse with his flaming sword and it was then they knew that the day was theirs.

They slew all the foes there and took only Ramsay Snow as prisoner. By first light the fires were all died out and the wounded were taken inside to be treated. The crows had already started to arrive to feast on the dead.

Lord Beric, Rodrik Stark, Thoros were talking to Lord Halys and when Ramsay was brought to them Edric knew it was for judgement.

"Which one of you is Beric Dondarrion?" Ramsay said when he was dumped before them. "No Bolton would ever speak with outlaws."

"Why, that would be me," said one-eyed Jack-Be-Lucky. "Since you're not a Bolton that would serve."

"You're a bloody liar, Jack," said Lem. "It's my turn to be Lord Beric."

"Does that mean I have to be Thoros?" Tom Sevenstreams laughed.

"I am Lord Beric Dondarrion," Lord Beric stepped forward as the men parted to make way for him and the Wanderer. "Speak now when you could else you'll never get your chance to speak again."

Edric could see that the bastard was still lolking for a way to get away from them. If he had any fear he did not show it in his face. "You won but I don't care," he said. "I came here for only my Reek and nothing else. Give me my Reek and I'll be gone."

"He's in the godswood," said Lord Halys. "We'll take you to him."

Notch and Woth picked Ramsay Snow up to his feet and pushed him after Lord Hornwood. Edric followed closely with Lord Beric, Rodrik Stark and Thoros with the others following behind.

Leaves crunched beneath their heels, and every step sent a spike of pain through Edric's knee where he had taken a wound. They walked in silence, the wind gusting around them. The first light of the rising sun was in his eyes as they clambered over the mossy rocks that were all that remained in the place. Behind was the godswood.

Ramsay Snow's pet was hanging from the limb of an oak, a noose tight around his long thin neck. His eyes bulged from a black face, staring down at the bastard of Bolton accusingly. "You killed him," Ramsay croaked.

"Sharp as a blade, this one," said one-eyed Jack.

A soft gust of wind was blowing from the north making Reek sway lightly from his rope. "Murder," Ramsay told them. " You foul, reeking rogues."

"That was good of you," said Tom amiably. "But we do not reek so bad as your lover here."

Ramsay turned away from the corpse. For the first time Edric could see discomfort in the bastard's face. "You… you had no right."

"We had a rope," said Lem Lemoncloak. "That's right enough."

Woth and Notch seized Ramsay's arms and pushed him to his knees. Edric saw that he was too deep in shock to struggle.

"The crimes he did along with you are to be answered," Rodrik Stark said. "Justice was served for your pet the same way we will sort it out to you."

"Well," said Tom o' Sevens, "you don't need a trial now, do you? After all your crimes and cruelty are quite infamous."

Jack-Be-Lucky came forward with a long coil of hempen rope. He looped one end around Ramsay's neck, pulled it tight, and tied a hard knot under his ear. The other end he threw over the limb of the oak. Lem caught it on the other side.

"What are you doing?" Ramsay asked. Edric thought how stupid that sounded. "You'd never dare hang a Bolton."

Lem Lemoncloak laughed. "Good to us that you're not a Bolton then," he said. "Moreeover the Leech lord should thank us and pay us for hanging you. We're doing a great service for him by doing this."

"Even if Lord Bolton has any qualms about it he can very well come and make it even with us," Jack-Be-Lucky said.

"My father will pay you," Ramsay tried again. "I'm worth a good ransom, more than anyone you've ever ransomed, twice as much."

Tom sighed. "Gold does not fix all the things you did to the innocents now, does it? Even if we asked Lord Bolton for a ransom, he'll send a hundred swords instead of a hundred dragons, I fear."

"He will!" Ramsay tried to sound stern, but his voice betrayed him. "He'll send a thousand swords, and kill you all. Or I will."

"First you have to get out of here though." Tom glanced up at the bastard's pet. "And you can't kill us twice if you are dead, now can you?" He drew a melancholy air from the strings of his woodharp.

Ramsay reached for the last line that might save him. "They say Lord Beric always gives a man a trial, that he won't kill a man unless something's proved against him. You can't prove anything against me. I never did the things you accuse me of doing so … you have no witness."

"I'll stop you right there," said the Wanderer. "Actually we have a witness." He raised his hand and two of the Hornwood men brought the girl Penny whom they had saved the day they caught Ramsay's pet. "Is this the man who raped you and tried to hunt you for sport, girl?" Rodrick Stark asked the girl.

The girl eyed Ramsay with such hatred and nodded her head. Tom gave Ramsay Snow a helpless shrug and began to play, "The Day They Hanged Black Robin."

"There is your trial," Rodrik Stark said and up went Ramsay Snow, choking, jerking, kicking and twisting, up and up and up and hung there until he stayed limp in the rope.

They left him there hanging returned back the way they came.

"What are you going to do now?" Rodrik asked Lord Hornwood as they entered the castle.

"I think I will go to Winterfell."

"Do you really think the Targaryen boy is going to give you any sort of justice?"

"Not to the Targaryen," Halys Hornwood stopped in his tracks. He took a piece of parchment from his tunic and pressed it in the hands of the wandering wolf. "There was a raven last night, from Winterfell. The wolves are back it says. The direwolf banner streams atop Winterfell once again and there's news of a certain ghost supposedly coming back from the dead. I intend to see this ghost for myself to see if the tales are true and you're welcome to join me."


	52. Chapter 52

_**Tyrion**_

In the Throne room of the Red Keep King Rhaegar took his morning meal with his son and chief knights and all his lords bannermen who had come to King's Landing for his son's wedding. He found the king having a good morning surrounded by his allies, the Iron throne loomed up behind him, the dragons watching from the red walls.

Tyrion arrived late, saddlesore, and sour, all too vividly aware of how amusing he must look as he waddled up the grand room amidst the dragons. It was a long ride from the inn to the Red Keep. The skulls of dead dragons looked down from its walls. He could feel the empty eyes of the dragon skulls watching him as soon as he entered with Bronn and his men.

Right from the door they hung and reached to the other end of the room where the iron throne sat. The skull of Balerion, the Black Dread, the dragon's fire which forged the Iron Throne from the thousand swords of Aegon the Conqueror's fallen foes hung right next to the throne itself.

Tyrion always had a morbid fascination with dragons. When he had got his first chance to come to King's Landing by his father, he had made it a point to seek out the theree dragons Daenerys Targaryen had brought forth into this world. When he could not see any of them In the capital he had been disappointed. They again he could atleast see the dragon skulls that hanged on the walls of Targaryen's throne room.

He had expected to find them impressive, perhaps even frightening. He had not thought to find them beautiful. Yet they were. As black as onyx, polished smooth, so the bone seemed to shimmer in the light of the torches on the wall. Dragonbone was black because of its high iron content, he had read that in a book once. It was strong as steel, yet lighter and far more flexible, and of course utterly impervious to fire. Dragonbone bows are greatly prized by the Dothraki, and small wonder. An archer so armed can outrange any wooden bow.

They liked the fire, he sensed. Their mouth stayed open as if they were waiting to get anyone who is foolish enough to come near. The teeth were long, curving knives of black diamond. The flames of the torch were nothing to them; they had bathed in the heat of far greater fires.

There were nineteen skulls. The oldest was more than three thousand years old; the youngest a mere century and a half. The most recent were also the smallest; a matched pair no bigger than mastiff's skulls hung near the doors, and oddly misshapen, all that remained of the last two hatchlings born on Dragonstone. They were the last of the Targaryen dragons, perhaps the last dragons anywhere, and they had not lived very long.

From there the skulls ranged upward in size to the three great monsters of song and story, the dragons that Aegon Targaryen and his sisters had unleashed on the Seven Kingdoms of old. The singers had given them the names of gods: Balerion, Meraxes, Vhaghar. Tyrion watched their gaping jaws, wordless and awed. You could have ridden a horse down Vhaghar's gullet, although you would not have ridden it out again. Meraxes was even bigger. And the greatest of them, Balerion, the Black Dread, could have swallowed an aurochs whole, or even one of the hairy mammoths said to roam the cold wastes beyond the Port of Ibben.

He tried to grasp the size of the living animal, to imagine how it must have looked when it spread its great black wings and swept across the skies, breathing fire.

His own remote ancestor, King Loren of the Rock, had tried to stand against the fire when he joined with King Mern of the Reach to oppose the Targaryen conquest. That was close on three hundred years ago, when the Seven Kingdoms were kingdoms, and not mere provinces of a greater realm. Between them, the Two Kings had six hundred banners flying, five thousand mounted knights, and ten times as many freeriders and men-at-arms. Aegon Dragonlord had perhaps a fifth that number, the chroniclers said, and most of those were conscripts from the ranks of the last king he had slain, their loyalties uncertain.

The hosts met on the broad plains of the Reach, amidst golden fields of wheat ripe for harvest. When the Two Kings charged, the Targaryen army shivered and shattered and began to run. For a few moments, the chroniclers wrote, the conquest was at an end . . . but only for those few moments, before Aegon Targaryen and his sisters joined the battle.

It was the only time that Vhaghar, Meraxes, and Balerion were all unleashed at once. The singers called it the Field of Fire.

Near four thousand men had burned that day, among them King Mern of the Reach. King Loren had escaped, and lived long enough to surrender, pledge his fealty to the Targaryens, and beget a son, for which Tyrion was duly grateful.

The cooks were serving the meat course while he entered: five suckling pigs, skin seared and crackling, a different fruit in every mouth. The smell made his mouth water. The king watched him as he neverd the table.

Rhaegar Targaryen was everything and more the singers praised him to be. His long silver hair flowing over his shoulder and a face fit to make maidens go mad, Tyrion could only see the proud dragonlord sitting before him. "My lord, Tyrion," he said when he saw him there. "We are surprised to see you here." Everyone in the room turned to look at him all wide-eyed in surprise.

"My pardons, Your Grace," Tyrion began, bowing his head. "My lord father finds himself occupied with his health issues. So I'm here to congratulate the prince in his wedding, if it please you."

"Oh," the king said. "I'd thought of something better from the Westerlands, like a full man and not a half." A roar of laugher erupted in the room as he said that. "Come join us in our meal, my lord. I'm sure we could squeeze some place for you as, we all could see that you don't require a lot of space."

"Oh, surely you can save me a seat, your grace," Tyrion replied. "I'm grateful for that." He filled his wine cup and watched a serving man carve into the pig. The crisp skin crackled under his knife, and hot juice ran from the meat. It was the loveliest sight Tyrion had seen in ages.

"What ails your father, my lord?" Rhaegar asked as his trencher was filled with slices of pork. "I'm hoping that the gods grant him good strength."

You better not, Tyrion thought. He has every strength to do his dirty work from the shadows. "Ageing makes men restless," Tyrion said. "My father is not an expection."

"I never thought that age would bring down the great lion of Casterly Rock? I believe the news of your brother Jaime's death broke him down."

I hope it did. Nothing ever broke Lord Tywin, not even his son and heir's death. Tyrion wondered what his father would do if he died. He might even dance elated before his lords. Lord Tywin's bane and shame finally died out Tyrion could never think of a better news for his father. "Jaime's death broke us all, my king," he said. "And like as not a Lannister always pays his debt."

He could see that Rhaegar did not like that tone of his. He ought to hold his tongue from here else he would soon end up as Ned Stark.

Lord Tyrell, the sour fat man who knows nothing about warfare, leaned forward. "You should be proud of your brother. Your father should be too. Ser Jaime was a good and honorable knight who died valiantly protecting his king."

Oh, he did that, my fat fool, Tyrion thought, but it was the king who ought to have died in his place.

"Isn't that right?" Rhaegar said. He looked over to Ser Gerold Hightower behind him. "Ser Gerold please tell Lord Tyrion of how valiantly his brother died."

The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard showed no emotion in his face. "Ser Jaime was a true true knight of the Kingsguard. He held to his vow till the end and defended his king with his dying breath."

Was that supposed to make me feel better, your grace? You can play your great hero's facade to all your fools over here but you won't fool me. You can't fool me with your honey dripping voice and sweet words.

"You can ask your father to rest easy now, Lord Tyrion," he said, "for Ser Jaime left no debt unsettled. I settled his debt for him in Braavos. Enjoy your stay here, my lord. You'll be given the high seat reserved for your father at my son's wedding." With that the king stood up and left with all his knights and lords trailing after him like obedient ants.

Tyrion sat there all alone for a while. He took one bite of pork, chewed a moment, and spit it out angrily. "I find I am not hungry after all," he said to the dragon skulls on the walls, climbing awkwardly off the bench.

Outside, Bronn was waiting for him with the horses. Tyrion had never wanted anything more than to leave this place for now.

"How did it go?" Bronn asked as he waddled past him, hurriedly.

"As far away from good as it goes," Tyrion replied.

Bronn chukled. "I've told this to you more than once, dwarf," he said smiling through the crooked teeth. "You should keep your mouth shut if you wish to live long."

"Perhaps, you're right," he said walking across the yard. "Bronn, be a sweet and make sure to cut off my tongue the next time I say something that will have my head cut off." He could only muse about how vain and empty his threats in the throne room had been. Rhaegar had seen it for some empty boast and paid no mind to them, no more that he had minded Tyrion. Even with the might of the west looming behind Lord Tywin, it was no match for the might of three adult dragons.

"I'll for sure."

Tyrion crossed the yard to the gate where Vylarr was waiting for him with the horses and his guards.

"Imp," he heard someone calling from behind. Tyrion turned to see and the sight was not the one he had been expecting. Out from the pan and into the brazier, gods, this day couldn't get any worse.

Oberyn Nymeros Martell, Tyrion muttered under his breath as the man fell in beside him. The Red Viper of Dorne. And what in the seven hells am I supposed to do with him?

"Prince Oberyn," he greeted warmly. He's made enough enemies for one day and this is one man whom no man ever wants as his enemy.

"We have met before," the Dornish prince said lightly to Tyrion as they walked side by side to the gate. "I would not expect you to remember, though. You were even smaller than you are now."

Tyrion misliked the tome of the Dornish prince but he held his tongue this time. "When did that happen, my prince?" he asked.

"Oh, many years ago, when my mother ruled in Dorne and your lord father was Hand to a different king, the Mad King."

"It was when I visited Casterly Rock with my mother, her consort, and my sister Elia. I was, oh, fourteen, fifteen, thereabouts, Elia a year older. Your brother and sister were eight or nine, as I recall, and you had just been born."

A queer time to come visiting. His mother had died giving him birth, so the Martells would have found the Rock deep in mouming. His father especially. Lord Tywin seldom spoke of his wife, but Tyrion had heard his uncles talk of the love between them. In those days, his father had been Aerys's Hand, and many people said that Lord Tywin Lannister ruled the Seven Kingdoms, but Lady Joanna ruled Lord Tywin. "He was not the same man after she died, imp," his Uncle Gery told him once. "The best part of him died with her." Gerion had been the youngest of Lord Tytos Lannister's four sons, and the uncle Tyrion liked best.

But he was gone now, lost beyond the seas, and Tyrion himself had put Lady Joanna in her grave. "Did you find Casterly Rock to your liking, my lord?"

"Scarcely. Your father ignored us the whole time we were there, after commanding Ser Kevan to see to our entertainment. The cell they gave me had a featherbed to sleep in and Myrish carpets on the floor, but it was dark and windowless, much like a dungeon when you come down to it, as I told Elia at the time. Your skies were too grey, your wines too sweet, your women too chaste, your food too bland . . . and you yourself were the greatest disappointment of all."

"I had just been born. What did you expect of me?"

"Enormity," the black-haired prince replied. "You were small, but far-famed. We were in Oldtown at your birth, and all the city talked of was the monster that had been born to the King's Hand, and what such an omen might foretell for the realm."

"Famine, plague, and war, no doubt." Tyrion gave a sour smile. "It's always famine, plague, and war. Oh, and winter, and the long night that never ends."

"All that," said Prince Oberyn, "and your father's fall as well. Lord Tywin had made himself greater than King Aerys, I heard one begging brother preach, but only a god is meant to stand above a king. You were his curse, a punishment sent by the gods to teach him that he was no better than any other man."

"I try, but he refuses to learn." Tyrion gave a sigh. "But do go on, I pray you. I love a good tale."

"And well you might, since you were said to have one, a stiff curly tail like a swine's. Your head was monstrous huge, we heard, half again the size of your body, and you had been born with thick black hair and a beard besides, an evil eye, and lion's claws. Your teeth were so long you could not close your mouth, and between your legs were a girl's privates as well as a boy's."

"Life would be much simpler if men could fuck themselves, don't you agree? And I can think of a few times when claws and teeth might have proved useful. Even so, I begin to see the nature of your complaint."

Bronn gave out with a chuckle, but Oberyn only smiled. "We might never have seen you at all but for your sweet sister. You were never seen at table or hall, though sometimes at night we could hear a baby howling down in the depths of the Rock. You did have a monstrous great voice, I must grant you that. You would wail for hours, and nothing would quiet you but a woman's teat."

"Still true, as it happens."

This time Prince Oberyn did laugh. "A taste we share. Lord Gargalen once told me he hoped to die with a sword in his hand, to which I replied that I would sooner go with a breast in mine."

Tyrion had to grin. "You were speaking of my sister?"

"Cersei promised Elia to show you to us. The day before we were to sail, whilst my mother and your father were closeted together, she and Jaime took us down to your nursery. Your wet nurse tried to send us off, but your sister was having none of that. 'He's mine', she said, 'and you're just a milk cow, you can't tell me what to do. Be quiet or I'll have my father cut your tongue out. A cow doesn't need a tongue, only udders.' "

"My sister learned charm at an early age," said Tyrion, amused by the notion of his sister claiming him as hers. She's never been in any rush to claim me since, the gods know.

"Cersei even undid your swaddling clothes to give us a better look," the Dornish prince continued. "You did have one evil eye, and some black fuzz on your scalp. Perhaps your head was larger than most . . . but there was no tail, no beard, neither teeth nor claws, and nothing between your legs but a tiny pink cock. After all the wonderful whispers, Lord Tywin's Doom turned out to be just a hideous red infant with stunted legs. Elia even made the noise that young girls make at the sight of infants, I'm sure you've heard it. The same noise they make over cute kittens and playful puppies. I believe she wanted to nurse you herself, ugly as you were. When I commented that you seemed a poor sort of monster, your sister said, 'He killed my mother', and twisted your little cock so hard I thought she was like to pull it off. You shrieked, but it was only when your brother Jaime said, 'Leave him be, you're hurting him', that Cersei let go of you. 'It doesn't matter', she told us. 'Everyone says he's like to die soon. He shouldn't even have lived this long.' "

My sweet sister. Isn't it wonderful that I grew up to be a man, half or not, just to spite Cersei. He the Dornishman a taste of his "evil eye." Now why would he tell such a tale? Is he testing me, or simply twisting my cock as Cersei did, so he can hear me scream? "Be sure and tell that story to my father. It will delight him as much as it did me. The part about my tail, especially. I did have one, but he had it lopped off."

Prince Oberyn had a chuckle. "You've grown more amusing since last we met."

"Yes, but I meant to grow taller."

"Speaking of amusement," Prince Oberyn inched closer to him, "I do hear some queer tales of your father and his pet Lorch, dwarf."

"My prince," Tyrion said. "I don't have any reason to imply-"

"Imp," the red viper seethed. "I care nothing for your reasons. I told this to Rhaegar and I'll say this to you. I care nothing but justice for Elia. I'll have it sooner or later. One by one and I'll not stop until everyone who had a hand in it are dealt with. Tell your lord father that the viper is not a being to tread with."

"You talk as if you're bringing a huge host behind you, my prince," Tyrion turned to look only at Bronn following him, "but I could only see you."

The Red Viper laughed. "Do you think you frighten me with a couple of your father's sworn swords? I think not."

When Tyrion heard his laughter, he knew he'd made a mistake. Guard your tongue, you little fool, before it digs your grave. Suddenly the last talk he'd had with his father came to his mind. Tyrion rubbed at his chin thoughtfully. He had nothing to lose by telling Oberyn the truth. But if there was a chance he might make his first friend in the capital today against all the other enemies. "Ser Amory Lorch is with my father but I believe he is not the man you want."

"Is that so," said the Red Viper. "Do all dwarfs lie so badly, I wonder?"

"I am not lying. Ser Amory may have brought Princess Rhaenys out from under her father's bed. He had some men-at-arms with him, but I do not know their names." He leaned forward. "But the one you should be seeking is the Mountain. It was Ser Gregor Clegane who brought Prince Aegon and your sister Elia to their fate, all beaten up badly."

"Why should I believe you?" Prince Oberyn asked. "This could be another one of your Lannister lies."

"You don't have to believe me, my prince," Tyrion said. "But I could get you to Amory Lorch and Gregor Clegane so that you may ask them yourselves." He left the Prince of Dorne there in the yard to think about what he had said to him.

He left the Red Keep and took the long route to the inn to keep no one from knowing where he stayed and with whom he stayed. They can't hurt me by hurting Shae if they never knew of the girl.

A gust of merriment greeted him as he shoved into the inn's common room. He recognized the throaty chuckle of a man and the lighter music of Shae's laughter. The girl was seated by the hearth, sipping wine at a round wooden table with three of his guards he'd left to guard her and a plump man whose back was to him. The innkeeper, he assumed... until Shae called Tyrion by name and the intruder rose. "My good lord, I am so pleased to see you," he gushed, a soft eunuch's smile on his powdered face.

Tyrion stumbled. "Lord Varys. I had not thought to see you here." The Others take him, how did he find them so quickly?

"Forgive me if I intrude," Varys said. "I was taken by a sudden urge to meet your young lady."

"Young lady," Shae repeated, savoring the words. "You're half right, m'lord. I'm young."

Eighteen, Tyrion thought. Eighteen, and a whore, but quick of wit, nimble as a cat between the sheets, with large dark eyes and fine black hair and a sweet, soft, hungry little mouth... and mine! Damn you, eunuch. "I fear I'm the intruder, Lord Varys," he said with forced courtesy. "When I came in, you were in the midst of some merriment."

"M'lord Varys complimented you in having a good time with the king," Shae explained. It grated on him to hear her call Varys m'lord in that tone; that was what she called him in their pillow play. "He told you were given a place in the high table of the prince's upcoming wedding feast."

"Did he now?" Tyrion asked. "I'm surprised to know of Lord Varys' sudden interest in spreading the tales of my honors."

Varys giggled. "Will you take some wine with us, my lord?"

"I'll take some wine." Tyrion seated himself beside Shae. He understood what was happening here, if Shae and the others did not. Varys was delivering a message. When he said, I was taken by a sudden urge to meet your young lady, what he meant was, You tried to hide her, but I knew where she was, and who she was, and here I am. He wondered who had betrayed him. The innkeeper, that boy in the stable, a guard on the gate... or one of his own?

"I always like to return to the city through the Gate of the Gods," Varys told Shae as he filled the wine cups. "The carvings on the gatehouse are exquisite, they make me weep each time I see them. The eyes... so expressive, don't you think? They almost seem to follow you as you ride beneath the portcullis."

"I never noticed, m'lord," Shae replied. "I'll look again on the morrow, if it please you."

Don't bother, sweetling, Tyrion thought, swirling the wine in the cup. He cares not a whit about carvings. The eyes he boasts of are his own. What he means is that he was watching, that he knew we were here the moment we passed through the gates.

"Do be careful, child," Varys urged. "King's Landing is not wholly safe these days. I know these streets well, and yet I almost feared to come today, alone and unarmed as I was. Lawless men are everywhere in this dark time, oh, yes. Men with cold steel and colder hearts." Where I can come alone and unarmed, others can come with swords in their fists, he was saying.

Shae only laughed. "If they try and bother me, m'lord Tyrion would send them running for their lives."

Varys hooted as if that was the funniest thing he had ever heard, but there was no laughter in his eyes when he turned them on Tyrion. "Your young lady has an amiable way to her. I should take very good care of her if I were you."

"I intend to. Any man who tries to harm her — will never find himself running again." Because you can't run if you're not alive now, can you? See? I speak the same tongue you do, eunuch. Hurt her, and I'll have your head.

"I will leave you." Varys rose. "I know how weary you must be. I only wished to welcome you, my lord, and tell you how very pleased I am by your arrival. We have dire need of you in the capital. Have you seen the comet?"

"I'm short, not blind," Tyrion said. Out on the kingsroad, it had seemed to cover half the sky, outshining the crescent moon.

"In the streets, they call it the Red Messenger," Varys said. "They say it comes as a herald before a king, to warn of fire and blood to follow. While others call it as the bleeding star. You do know the story of the star who bled don't you, my lord." I know everything I need to know about Ashara Dayne, eunuch and if you try to imply that Shae will follow on her tragedy to the depths of a watery grave then gods help you as I'll make sure that you follow her, with a stone strapped to your chest. The eunuch rubbed his powdered hands together. "May I leave you with a bit of a riddle, Lord Tyrion?" He did not wait for an answer. "In a battlefield comes two men face to face, a dragonrider and a dragonslayer, one risking everything he has and the other with nothing left for him to risk. So tell me — who lives and who dies?"

"The dragonrider, of course," Shae said at once. "Dragons melt swords."

Tyrion sipped his wine, thoughtful. "Perhaps. Or not. It depends upon who is who."

"You're a smart man, Lord Tyrion," Varys said. Bowing deeply, the eunuch hurried from the common room on soft slippered feet. What is the truth behind the riddle, Spider? Tyrion thought as he watched him go.


	53. Chapter 53

_**The lost friend**_

The day was hot and sticky, as all the days were in Essos. A ferocious southern sun beat down upon them, but heat was the last and least of Asher's concerns. The Company of the Rose was encamped three miles south of town, well north of where he had expected them. His home remained a world away, and so did his friend ... well, away from him and surrounded by enemies. If the gods were good, the rumors he'd heard would be very true, but Asher knew that it was more like Winterfell standing alone against the might of the dragons.

"Where is Hunt?" Asher asked Barton, a young man no older than twenty with red hair and a russet beard. "How long should it take to buy three horses?" He had known Barton for more than five years. They had grown up together in the company of men and women who had left their homes in order to stay free. They had fought together, bled together and learned together along with the other young men in the company.

Edgar shrugged from the top of the rock where he was perched upon. "Asher, is this a good idea? A safe one? We are not a part of the company anymore. You know that as well as I do."

"It may not be safer, yes," Asher told the heir of Barrowton. "But we still belong in the company." Unlike most of them here in the Company of the Rose, Edgar was born as the firstborn son and heir of Lord William Dustin and his lady wife Barbrey and stood to inherit Barrowton after his father but the boy had followed Asher into exile, both no older than thirteen in this new part of the world. Lord Dustin had sent his uncle Bill not to bring the boy back to him but to keep him safe away from Westeros.

Asher himself had been a reckless and a stupid boy who could not keep his mouth shut. He had been so worth the day Jon Connington came to Ironrath to hear his father swear fealty to the Targaryen king. Their true king and queen had been murdered through treachery and the dragon had the gall to come to them after that. Young and reckless as he was, Asher had shouted words which would've cost his head if not for his father. His father had sent him away with his uncle to Essos in an exile to keep him away from the Targaryens' grasp. He had lost them in the sea and ended up in Braavos all alone. It had taken four years for him to find them again but those years had made him harder, better and smarter. Those years had given him hope and a chance to see that there was hope after all. Not a day had passed without Asher wanting to fight for justice, for his friend and king. The day might come soon though, if everything he had planned for today came to fruition.

"We have gone to great lengths to get them to fight all these years," Owen reminded him. "This is not working, don't you see. That's why we came away from them remember?"

"True," Asher admitted. "But I have something worth fighting for this time. Something I did not have the last time or the time before that."

"And what is that?" Owen asked. "It has been two years since we last rode with the Company, and Redrain is dead. If it had been Rickard you would have an easy time convincing them to fight."

Redrain. Rickard Flint had been so full of life the last time Asher and his company of six had left him. He had been a good man, with a sure sword and an easy smile, it was hard to accept that he was gone. A true warrior at their head, Rickard had not gotten the name Redrain for no reason. Asher had tried his best to convince him to return to Westeros and fight for justice but Redrain had always denied him with a soft, sad smile. 'What reason is left there to fight for a lost cause?' he would say. If ony he was alive now, Asher could have given him the reason and made him set course to Westeros. He wondered who had taken the command of the company now. Bill Dustin seemed to be the perfect option. His prowess with his axe was famed all throughout Essos and the Free Cities together. Bill was a capable commander... and Edgar's uncle. He would have an easy time convincing him to turn home and to his friend.

Last night he'd dreamt of Braavos again. Alone, with another boy as the only company, younger than him but much nobler. They had run together, through the different streets, house to house, racing up stairs, leaping across canals and boats, played together, as his ears rang to the sound of distant drums. Deep harsh banging and the swish of oars on water, a maddening cacophony of noise that grew ever louder until it seemed as if his head would explode.

Four years had come and gone since the day he had lost his friend, yet the sound of drums booming still tied a knot in his guts. Others might claim that their war was lost when King Eddard was dead, but the wolf had left his pup in this world so that they could be avenged. Asher had not only lost his friend that day, he had lost the hope of the entire north. If only he had brought him to the Company of the Rose he had found in Essos, justice could've been won for the King and the Queen, for every true man and honest woman who had died that day in the name of King Eddard and Queen Ashara.

"Even if we go there with this thing again, who knows if the new commander would be willing to fight," Barton was saying.

"They should. The men should yearn to return home."

"You could not expect that, Asher," Denys Snow said. "They have stayed here for years now."

"I have the reason to make them come home." Asher slapped the hilt of his long-sword with a gloved hand. "This isn't how it's supposed to end. You all followed me because everyone believed that I knew something, didn't you? And what I know is that this is going to work."

"Asher, " Edgar called loudly, above the rush of the water nearby. "It's Hunt and Roger."

So it was. Hunt looked hot and bedraggled as he made his way along the waterfront to the foot of the pier. Heat had left his face wet with sweat and red. He had the same sour look on his long face as at everytime he was sent venturing under the sun. Roger looked no better than him as well, but they were leading three horses, however, and that was all that mattered.

"Don't ever sending me out riding under the fucking Essosi sun," Ethan Hunt said, dismounting his horse briskly.

"Took you long enough," Asher asked them.

"Easy for you to say," Roger answered. "You were not the one out in the burning sun."

"Stop whining," Edgar dropped down from the rock. "As you can see we were out in the open too."

"Yeah, hear that," Barton said. "See any tent above our heads? It's just the same sun."

Hunt's horses did not please him. "Were these the best that you could find?" he complained to the knight. Ethan had been the second son of some knight in the south but that had been in the past though. They had three good horses won at pit fighting, all won from the dothraki screamers who had braids reaching their arse, but for the rest they had to turn to trade though.

"They were," said Hunt, in an irritated tone, "and you had best not ask what they cost us. Unless you wish to wait to find some dothraki for us to kill, this is what we got."

"My grandfather's guards have better horses than these," Edgar said inspecting the horses.

"That's because, Edgar," Roger said, "we are not in Westeros and no one in Essos knows how to breed fine horses like the Ryswells."

They would do, thought Asher. We're not riding into battle after all, just a ride to meet old friends. After Essos when he and his friends left the company to find Andrew, he had found it difficult to put the same trust in them as previously. If only he had brought him to them, this whole thing would've been done more quickly and easily. Almost all the men and women in the Company of the Rose knew King Eddard firsthand and likely not forget him till their end. It was during his days the Company of the Rose returned home to the north after nearly three hundred years of exile, ever since the days of King Torrhen Stark, the king who knelt, submitted his crown to Aegon the Conqueror. Only when King Eddard won the north's freedom from Rhaegar Targaryen, did the exiled northerners returned home to kneel again only to a King in the North. If only I had showed them what they were fighting for... If only I could convince them to turn west, I could get them to see it.

"They will do well enough, I suppose," he told Roger. "The camp is only three miles south."

"I still don't like the sound of this," Roger said. "But I think it's no high treason in trying it once more."

"Let's just hope this will be the last time," Asher replied. It might have been different if Redrain still commanded, but Rodrick Flint was four years dead, and he didn't knew whom he was dealing with this time. He would not say that to his friends, however.

He took a big grey gelding for himself, so pale that he was almost white. Edgar and Owen took the other two and all seven set forth together. The road ran south beneath the high white walls of Valaar Hargos for a good half mile. Then they left the town behind, following the winding course of the Rhoyne through willow groves and poppy fields and past a tall wooden windmill whose blades creaked like old bones as they turned. They found the Company of the Rose beside the river as the sun was lowering in the west. It was a camp that even Arthur Dayne might have approved of - compact, orderly, defensible. A deep ditch had been dug around it, with sharpened stakes inside. The tents stood in rows, with broad avenues between them. The latrines had been placed beside the river, so the current would wash away the wastes. The horse lines were to the north. Tall battle standards of white cloth with the violet rose in the middle flapped atop lofty poles along the perimeters of the camp. It had been a blue winter rose the sigil of the Company of Rose from the time of Brandon Snow but the company had taken the violet rose in respect for the new Queen, Ashara Dayne. Beneath them, armed and armored sentries walked their rounds with spears and crossbows, watching every approach. Asher had feared that the company might have grown lax after Redrain. Lack of leadership would make even a pride of lions turn into a fleet of sheep; but it would seem his worries had been misplaced. At the gate, Owen said something to the serjeant of guards, and a runner was sent off to find a captain. When he turned up, he was just as ugly as the last time Asher laid eyes on him. A long-limbed, lanky hunk of a man, the sellsword had a seamed face with a big old crude scar which started from the right eyebrow and ended at left chin. Whatever charms he might've had in the past were long gone with that hideous scar. "Have they made you a captain, Jon?" Asher asked. "I thought the Company of Rose had standards."

"It's worse than that, lucky charms," said Jon Locke. "You guys look surprisingly well enough, again." He clasped Asher by the forearm, pulled him into a bone-crushing hug. "When Bill said you'd be turning up, I almost shit myself. And Owen, you wench fucker, good to see you too. Still have that pretty face to hurt women." He turned to the others and greeted them all, one by one.

"I need to meet the captain-general."

"Aye. About that." Locke waved them through the gate. "Come with me. We don't have a captain is the truth of it. All the officers are in Redrain's tent. War council or another one of those voting ceremony. The bloody Volantenes are rattling their spears and demanding to know our intentions."

The men of the Company of Rose were outside their tents, dicing, drinking, and swatting away flies. Asher wondered how many of them knew who he was. There were new men and women who he did not know. Two years is a long time. Even the men who'd ridden with him might not easily recognize the smooth faced exile lordling Asher Forrester with the rough, light brown beard.

The captain-general's tent was made of white cloth and surrounded by a ring of pikes all bearing the violet roses of the queen.

"Wait here," Locke said. "I'll go tell them of your arrival."

He stood there watching the violet roses swaying in the wind. He could only wish that they still held queen Ashara in high esteem and not just bearing her roses in the banners

Jon stepped out of the tent. "Go on in."

The high officers of the Company of Rose rose from stools and camp chairs as they entered. Old friends and family greeted Asher and the others with smiles and embraces, the new men more formally.

Jon Locke did the introductions. Some of the sellsword captains bore bastard names, as Denys did: Snow, Rivers, Stone. Others claimed names that we're still very much respected in the Seven Kingdoms; Asher counted two Umbers, three Ryswells, a Mormont, a Manderly with his green beard, a pair of Norreys from the mountains. Not every captain was of Westerosi blood. Timoth, a beared norvoshi, sat with his big, long axe, as in Redrain's day. And there were fair share of others from other areas as well.

Ghosts and exiles, Asher thought, as he surveyed their faces. Like me. Descendants of people who had chosen exile in favor of freedom rather than submitting to a foreign king. This is my army. This is our best hope.

He turned to Bill Dustin who was surrounded by all the other captains of the company.

Even in the winter of his life, Bill 'Kill' Dustin looked everybit like the warrior he had been in his youth. Tall, with big wide chest, mild grey eyes, and uncombed long white beard, Bill sat in a camp chair straight as a spear. "Asher, you're back," he said by way of greeting. "I hope that you brought my grand nephew back safe."

"We are all here, my lord."

It's him I have to turn the mind of. No one would dare oppose 'Kill' Bill. Turn him around and the others would follow soon enough.

"I came here to discuss an important matter," Asher told them, "you all should hear it."

"Very well, then." Asher's uncle spoke. "Speak what you will. Do you need any refreshments? Wine, perhaps?"

"Thank you, Uncle, but no," said Asher. "Water will suffice."

"As you prefer." Malcolm Branfield smiled up at the him. "Are you here to talk about Westeros again, nephew?"

Does they already know of the rumors? Asher wondered. How much did they know? He had heard them well enough and it is possible that they had heard them too. But do they believe it as I do? Looking at them he could not help but think that they did not believe them even if they'd heard. He could not fault them for it though, they had not seen him as he had.

That time was done, though. "Yes and I mean it this time," Asher said. "My lords, the time for us to return home had come at last."

Silence greeted his announcement. Someone cleared his throat. One of the Umbers refilled his wine cup from the flagon. Manderly and Mormont exchanged a glance. They know, Asher realized then. They have always known that I'll be coming only for that. He turned to look at his uncle. "This is not our place, uncle."

His uncle scratched his chin. "You know that we can't go back there, Asher. They'll hunt you down for treason and all of us for being loyal to the Starks."

"We have turned away rich contracts in favor of your word, boy," Bill Dustin said, "We've melted off in this heat and our blades go to rust. You better have a good reason for having us do so."

"You will have work for your blades soon enough."

"Will we?" asked Reyna Longbraid, tugging her long brown braid with one hand and a throwing axe in her other. "I assume you know that the Targaryen has a newfound marriage alliance with Dorne."

"We heard that tale in Volantis."

"No tale. Simple truth. That's why it is harder to grasp," Finnick said, an orphan boy turned captain. "We can't stand against them, Asher. Rhaegar has the Tyrells, his master friends from east and now Dorne and what do we have, some eight thousand swords? The Fat flower of Highgarden himself out numbers us ten to one."

"And dragons," added Ragnar.

"It does no good to fight for a lost cause, Asher," his uncle said again. "Even Redrain knew the truth of it."

"We had a king and queen who brought us home to Westeros, but the Targaryen rules the north now along with his six other kingdoms," Bortrop Snow said. "We've been following Brandon Snow's ways and choose to be free rather than bending the knee to the dragon.

"Even if we manage to rouse up the north," Bill Dustin said, "how much will it avail us when all the six kingdoms close around us like a fist?"

Edgar stepped forward to face his great-uncle. "Not all of them are loyal to Rhaegar Targaryen. Surely King Eddard had friends in the south and is-"

"Dead," Kill Bill finished for him. "None of us are Ned Stark and not all of us could be."

"You're right," Asher spoke then. "Not all of us can be King Eddard," he said, "but I know someone who can."

"Who are you talking about?" his uncle asked.

"Someone who have the right blood, the right flesh and the right prowess that Ned Stark had," he insisted. "Someone with Ned Stark's own blood running through his veins. You asked me for a reason to fight for and a King, well, I have both of them for you now."

The captains looked as if someone had slapped their faces. "Has the sun curdled your brains, Asher?" Bill Dustin said. "Ned Stark is dead if you mean to fight for him. Unless you have some sort of dark magic to bring the dead back to life, it is never possible. And Ben Stark is at the Wall, a sworn brother of the Night's Watch. Do you mean to bring him back from the Wall and have him break all of his oaths and honor?"

"No, not Eddard or Benjen for that matter," Asher told them. "The Quiet Wolf may be dead with his she-wolf but not their pup. You asked me for a king and there is your king in Winterfell. Andrew Stark, the son and heir of King Eddard, your king, my king, our king. He is out there fighting for the north and his father's house all alone and honor would have us to fight along with him, isn't it?"

He turned around to look at all the faces in the tent. "Didn't you all swear fealty to King Eddard? Are we not wearing Queen Ashara's violet rose in our banners as a homage to the benevolent queen? Their own son is fighting a war on his own and every moment we stay here waiting for a reason is disgrace to the oaths we swore to Eddard Stark and a shame to Ashara Dayne's roses."

"Ned's son?" Bill Dustin asked surprised.

"The boy was said to be dead along with his parents," Reyna said. "How do you say that he is alive?"

"You don't have to take my word for it," Asher told them. "Come to Westeros and see him with your own eyes."

"He's not wrong," said his uncle. "By now the dragon would surely have the wolf's scent, but Rhaegar's attentions will be fixed upon his son's marriage and his alliance. He would not even remember a thing of our prince. Once we land and raise our banners, many and more will flock to join us. Baratheon, Arryn, Tully, His Grace had friends in the south."

"Might be," allowed Reyna, "or not. They were Ned Stark's friends. Who could say that they will fight for his son?"

"Why should we care about them?" asked Asher. "They might join us or not. Our King is fighting a war right now, isn't that alone enough for us to go help him. Look! Look around you," Asher pointed to the banners around them. "That purple rose is there for a reason. Our name, our oath, our honor is there for a reason. We chose to be free in exile rather than be a captive in home. We know no king but the King in the North whose name is a Stark. We didn't just go through everything we went through for no reason at all, to just have it end like this. There is a reason that we are here, and if that reason is to die for our king then we will do it with pride, fighting for him."

"I have had enough of balking plans and shadowy reasons," Bill Dustin said. "Eddard Stark won his freedom from the Targaryens without any help. If he can, why not his son."

"Even if we are wrong," his uncle said, "at least we won't die alone away from our home and our king."

"That's so," Gilden Norrey said, "Aye."

"Asher Forrester," said Kill Bill and laid his axe at his feat, "we are your men. Is this your wish, that we sail west to meet your Stark king?"

For a moment he could not believe what was happening. There were people in that tent who had been fighting in wars even before Asher had seen the light of the world, yet they all looked at him to lead them, including all those battle hardened men.

"It is," he said at last.

Almost everyone in the tent was smiling in approval. When all of them began to speak at once, Asher knew the tide had turned.

He had waited so long for this day, surely the gods would grant him another chance to meet his friend, another chance to help the boy he'd called as friend to get justice for his parents' murders, another chance to serve his king as his own father had served Andrew's father.


	54. Chapter 54

_**Jaehaerys**_

The courtyard rang to the song of swords.

Under black wool, boiled leather, and mail, sweat trickled icily down Jaehaerys's chest as he pressed the attack. Quid stumbled backward, defending himself clumsily. When he raised his sword, Jaehaerys went underneath it with a sweeping blow that crunched against the back of the other boy's leg and sent him staggering. Buck's downcut was answered by an overhand that dented his helm. When Orten tried a sideswing from his left, Jaehaerys swept aside his blade and slammed a mailed forearm into his chest. Orten lost his footing and fell down hard in the snow. From the other side Quid rushed for him. Jaehaerys knocked his sword from his fingers and smashed his head right at the bigger boy's nose.

"Enough!" Ser Alliser Thorne had a voice with an edge like Valyrian steel.

Quid rubbed his nose gingerly. His fingers came away bloody. "He broke my nose."

"He hamstrung you, split your skull, and cut off your hand. Or would have, if these blades had an edge. It's fortunate for you that the Watch needs stableboys as well as rangers." Ser Alliser gestured at Geron and Lio. "Get the Otter on his feet, he has funeral arrangements to make."

Jaehaerys took off his helm as the other boys were pulling Orten to his feet. The frosty morning air felt good on his face. He leaned on his sword, drew a deep breath, and allowed himself a moment to savor the victory.

"That is a longsword, not an old man's cane," Ser Alliser said sharply. "Are your legs hurting, your grace? Shall I sent for a royal crew to take care of you?"

Jaehaerys hated his tone. A mockery tone that Ser Alliser had chosen for him the first day he came to practice. The man was sent to the Wall by his father to join the Night's Watch for siding with his grandfather Aerys in their struggle for King's Landing. By mocking him to the ground and belittling him at every turn Ser Alliser somehow thought that he was getting back at the king for the disgrace his father had placed upon him. Had he been in Andrew's place in having his vengeance against his father, his head would've been travelling to his father right now. Jaehaerys had no doubt of it. "No," he said, calmly.

Thorne strode toward him, crisp black leathers whispering faintly as he moved. He was a compact man of fifty years, spare and hard, with grey in his black hair and eyes like chips of onyx. "The truth now," he commanded.

"I'm tired," Jaehaerys admitted. His arm burned from the weight of the longsword, and he was starting to feel his bruises now that the fight was done.

"What you are is weak."

"I won."

"No. They lost."

One of the other boys sniggered. Jaehaerys knew better than to reply. He had beaten everyone that Ser Alliser had sent against him, yet it gained him nothing. He would gain nothing from the master-at-arms. Thorne hated him, Jaehaerys had decided; of course, he hated the other boys even worse. Atleast the man had the eyes to see skill.

"That will be all," Thorne told them. "I can only stomach so much ineptitude in any one day. If the Others ever come for us, I pray they have archers, because you lot are fit for nothing more than arrow fodder."

Jaehaerys followed the rest back to the armory, walking with Gwayne. Both of them often walked together here, just the two of them together. There were almost twenty in the group he trained with, yet not one he could call a friend. Most were two or three years his senior, yet not one was half the fighter he had been at ten. Orten was quick but afraid of being hit. Kurt used his sword like a dagger, Geren was weak as a girl, Quid slow and clumsy. Harrion's blows were brutally hard but he ran right into your attacks. He'd tried to speak with them, tried to make some friends but the more time he spent with them in the yard, the more they despised him because he was better than them.

Inside, Jaehaerys hung sword and scabbard from a hook in the stone wall, ignoring the others around him. Methodically, he began to strip off his mail, leather, and sweat-soaked woolens. Chunks of coal burned in iron braziers at either end of the long room, but Jaehaerys found himself shivering. The chill was always with him here. In a few years he would forget what it felt like to be warm. He missed Viserion, never once stopped missing him but he missed him now more than ever. The Wall was cold, so bloody cold.

The weariness came on him suddenly, as he donned the roughspun blacks that were their everyday wear. He sat on a bench, his fingers fumbling with the fastenings on his cloak. So cold, he thought, remembering the warm halls of Winterfell, where the hot waters ran through the walls like blood through a man's body. There was scant warmth to be found in Castle Black; the walls were cold here, and the people colder.

No one had told him the Night's Watch would be like this. All he had heard of them in the south was that they protected the realm from the greater threats. None sung songs of the cold or the men that walked here.

He had thought to get familiar with his family at least. But even they had abandoned him in this cold place at the end of the world. Benjen Stark he had not acted as if Jaehaerys was his nephew. The only thing he had cared was the reason to why he was here. Even that the First Ranger hadn't come to ask him face to face, he had sent Samwell Tarly to do his bidding.

The very day of their arrival, Jaehaerys had seen people look at him as if he was a ghost. The very sight of the silver hair and purple eyes had given start to the rumors of direwolves and dark hair and grey eyes. Benjen Stark had left three days ago to see his nephew without having a single talk with him in all the time he was here. The night the First Ranger left for Winterfell Jaehaerys had tried to sought out his Targaryen kin in the great timbered common hall. Even Maester Aemon had nothing for his great-great-grandnephew despite of their shared family name. He sat on the high table along with Lord Commander Mormont and the other officers of Castle Black and had his supper as if he did not even exist. He had thought the old man was tired and will come to talk with him the next day.

He rose at dawn the next day only to go under the harshness of Ser Alliser. Aemon Targaryen had nothing to say to him that day or the days that followed it.

Afterward he had given up the hope of having brothers in the Night's Watch. If he must be alone, he would make solitude his armor. He had Gwayne and he is content to have only him by his side.

He missed his true brother: Aegon, his rival and best friend and constant companion. He wondered what he was doing now. Had he already heard of my fate? Was he coming north on his dragon by now? He knew that Aegon would not stay quiet once he knew about him, no more than their father would be. There was no hope for peace anymore. Should I run away from here to help my true brother and my true family? He had not sworn his vows yet. He could do that and lose the last bit of honor he had left.

"Blasted mail," Gwayne said as he hung the mail and sat. "Can't get enough of it."

Jaehaerys chuckled. "Get used to it, Gwayne," he said. "We're still a bit away from passing."

"Aye," Gwayne agreed. "But that doesn't mean that I like it all around."

"Why do they have to keep testing us?" he asked. "We are the best swords they have, very much better than this lot in everything." He looked around at all his future brothers, brutes and bullies, eyes brimming with malice and hostility whenever they met him.

"It's the way of the Watch, my prince," Gwayne replied. "If they said that we are not ready, we should respect that."

Respect. The word turned to acid in his mouth. They never showed me any respect. No respect to their prince. For a moment he thought that if he had made a mistake by coming here. He should have fought to death like his father would have. That would have made him proud. Instead he had gone down meekly to his cousin's words and shamed his father. 'No Dragon would bow before the Wolf,' he could hear his father's voice somewhere in him.

"Ready for the watch atop the Wall, my prince?" Gwayne asked.

He was tired but Jaehaerys was not ready to show it to everyone there. "Aye," he said.

By the time they left the armory, it was almost midday. The sun had broken through the clouds. Jaehaerys turned his back on it and lifted his eyes to the Wall, blazing blue and crystalline in the sunlight. Even after all these weeks, the sight of it still gave him the shivers. Centuries of windblown dirt had pocked and scoured it, covering it like a film, and it often seemed a pale grey, the color of an overcast sky . . . but when the sun caught it fair on a bright day, it shone, alive with light, a colossal blue-white cliff that filled up half the sky.

The largest structure ever built by the hands of man, remembered his lessons when they had first caught sight of the Wall in the distance. You could see it from miles off, a pale blue line across the northern horizon, stretching away to the east and west and vanishing in the far distance, immense and unbroken. This is the end of the world, it seemed to say.

When they finally spied Castle Black, its timbered keeps and stone towers looked like nothing more than a handful of toy blocks scattered on the snow, beneath the vast wall of ice. The ancient stronghold of the black brothers was no Winterfell, no true castle at all. Lacking walls, it could not be defended, not from the south, or east, or west; but it was only the north that concerned the Night's Watch, and to the north loomed the Wall. Almost seven hundred feet high it stood, three times the height of the tallest tower in the stronghold it sheltered. Samwell Tarly had said the top was wide enough for a dozen armored knights to ride abreast. The gaunt outlines of huge catapults and monstrous wooden cranes stood sentry up there, like the skeletons of great birds, and among them walked men in black as small as ants.

As he stood outside the armory looking up, Jaehaerys felt almost as overwhelmed as he had that day on the kingsroad, when he'd seen it for the first time. The Wall was like that. Sometimes he could almost forget that it was there, the way you forgot about the sky or the earth underfoot, but there were other times when it seemed as if there was nothing else in the world. It was older than the Seven Kingdoms, and when he stood beneath it and looked up, it made him dizzy. He could feel the great weight of all that ice pressing down on him, as if it were about to topple, and somehow Jaehaerys knew that if it fell, the world fell with it.

They were raised up by the winch used to get people up the Wall. Above the men were already waiting for someone to come and relieve them of their duties. Jaehaerys and Gwayne got the pikes, twice as tall as they were and took their post for the watch.

Jaehaerys looked into the pale wildreness of the haunted forest and the lands of snow and ice lay beyond. The only lands which he will for the rest of his life.

"Makes you wonder what lies beyond," Gwayne said.

Jaehaerys looked around. "What is that supposed to mean?"

Gwayne gestured up at the plain white vastness beyond the Wall with a his gloved hand. "Why is it that when one man builds a wall, the next man immediately needs to know what's on the other side? You do want to know what's on the other side, don't you my prince? The things we'll be protecting the realm from?"

"It's nothing special," Jaehaerys said. "The rangers say it's just woods and mountains and frozen lakes, with lots of snow and ice. Maybe a few wildlings here and there."

"And the grumkins and the snarks," Gwayne said. "Let us not forget them, or else what's this big thing for?"

Jaehaerys laughed.

Their watch went on and on and on that Jaehaerys grew tired of it soon enough. He was tired and hungry and there was nothing to do up here but to watch the never ending north. He sat at the base of a catapult for a while, throwing some chinks of ice down to find how long it took for it to reach the bottom, but if it ever reached he never heard it. By the time the men came to relieve him of the watch, frost had settled on the fur lining of his cuffs and neck.

"I'm hungry," Jaehaerys told Gwayne. In all his life he did not remember a time being hungry, really hungry. Life as a prince had excluded him of that, but he was not a prince now.

"Me too," Gwayne replied. "Come now, my prince. They'll be serving some vile stew in the common hall by now, and I could do with a bowl of something hot."

Jaehaerys fell in beside him and walked with him to the common hall. The wind was rising, and they could hear the old wooden buildings creaking around them, and in the distance a heavy shutter banging, over and over, forgotten.

Inside, the hall was filled with men, men of the Night's Watch. There were crow nests in the timbers of its lofty ceiling like the ones in the broken tower of Winterfell. Jaehaerys heard their cries overhead as he accepted a bowl of stew and a heel of black bread from the day's cooks. Quid and Orten and some of the others were seated at the bench near the hearth, laughing and cursing each other in rough voices. Jaehaerys thought to go sit with them for a moment. Then he chose a spot at the far end of the hall, well away from the other diners.

Gwayne sat across from him, sniffing at the stew suspiciously. "Barley, onion, carrot," he muttered. "Someone should tell the cooks that turnip isn't a meat."

"Anything that'll fill my stomach is enough for me." Jaehaerys pulled off his gloves and warmed his hands in the steam rising from the bowl. The smell made his mouth water.

"Jae." A shaking sound came from behind him. Jaehaerys knew Samwell Tarly's shaking voice. When he turned around to see the fat boy, he bowed his head at once. "Apologies... My... my prince," he stammered.

"It is not necessary, Sam," Jaehaerys said. "You can call me by my name." That much he can allow the boy. Samwell Tarly was a newly made black brother just moons before Jaehaerys arrived here. The boy was an year older than him but was much afraid and uncomfortable in his presence. Despite being raised as a lord's son, Sam was not so brave even to look at a prince. They'll soon be brothers now and the title would no longer mean anything. Jaehaerys liked the boy and was happy to have him around as the only friend here.

"Umm, okay," he said. "Maester Aemon wants to see you."

For a moment Jaehaerys was surprised. Why would he want to see him now? "Shall I finish my meal first?" he asked. "I'm hungry."

"Sure," Sam smiled.

He found Maester Aemon up in the rookery, feeding the ravens. Clydas was with him, carrying a bucket of chopped meat as they shuffled from cage to cage. "You wanted to see me, maester?"

The maester nodded. "I did indeed. Clydas, give Jaehaerys the bucket. Perhaps he will be kind enough to assist me." The hunched, pink-eyed brother handed Jaehaerys the bucket and scurried down the ladder. "Toss the meat into the cages," Aemon instructed him. "The birds will do the rest. "

Jaehaerys took the bucket in his right hand and thrust his left down into the bloody bits. The ravens began to scream noisily and fly at the bars, beating at the metal with night-black wings. The meat had been chopped into pieces no larger than a finger joint. He filled his fist and tossed the raw red morsels into the cage, and the squawking and squabbling grew hotter. Feathers flew as two of the larger birds fought over a choice piece. Quickly he grabbed a second handful and threw it in after the first.

"Curious, aren't they," the maester said. "Most ravens will eat grain, but they prefer flesh. It makes them strong, and I fear they relish the taste of blood good. In that they are like men . . . and like men, not all ravens are alike."

Jaehaerys had nothing to say to that. He threw meat, wondering why he'd been summoned. No doubt the old man would tell him, in his own good time. Maester Aemon was not a man to be hurried. He had wanted to see him only weeks after his arrival.

"Doves and pigeons can also be trained to carry messages," the maester went on, "though the raven is a stronger flyer, larger, bolder, far more clever, better able to defend itself against hawks . . . yet ravens are black, and they eat the dead, so some godly men abhor them. Baelor the Blessed tried to replace all the ravens with doves, did you know?" The maester turned his white eyes on Jaehaerys, smiling. "The Night's Watch prefers ravens."

Jae's fingers were in the bucket, blood up to the wrist. "Dywen says the wildlings call us crows," he said uncertainty.

"The crow is the raven's poor cousin. They are both beggars in black, hated and misunderstood."

Jae wished he understood what they were talking about, and why. What did he care about ravens and doves? If he had something to say to him, why couldn't he just say it?

"They tell me you show great promise with a sword?"

"Is that why you called me here?" Jae asked him. "To ask me about my swordsmanship?"

The old man smiled softly. "No, I called you here to ask about you. How you were and how-"

"I don't care," Jae cut him off. "I don't care about them and I don't care about you or this place or any of it. I hate it here. It's too . . . it's cold."

"Yes. Cold and hard and mean, that's the Wall, and the men who walk it. Not like the stories your wet nurse told you. It is your life now as It is mine and the others'."

"Life," Jae said bitterly.

"Yes, life," Noye said. "A long life or a short one, it's up to you. The road you're walking, one of your brothers will slit your throat for you one night."

"They're not my brothers," Jae snapped. "They hate me because I'm better than they are."

"No. They hate you because you act like you're better than they are. They look at you and see a prince who thinks he owns the place. Let me say this to you, your Targaryen name will win you no favors in the Watch." Maester Aemon leaned close. "If you are any better than them, why are here in this place where the are and not in some castle? Didn't someone sent you here the same way someone else sent them?"

Jae had no answer for that.

"That's right," the old man said. "You're as same as they are."

"You think you had it worse because he sent you here?" Maester Aemon asked.

Jae shrugged. You did feel it though, a dark part of him whispered.

The old man seemed to sense his guilt. "Your father killed his father under the cover of peace," the old man said, "Any other man in his place wouldn't have been so generous as that. Whatever reason your father had for doing it, will not make it right. My brother once sent our own blood to the Wall for slaying his foe under the peace banner, a foe who would've fought him for the throne. Yet he sent the man to the Wall because it was wrong."

The old man laid a withered, spotted hand on his shoulder. "It hurts, boy," he said softly. "Oh, yes. Choosing . . . it has always hurt. And always will. I know."

"I watched my family rip itself apart, I watched my brother's family fight with my mother's kin and the Gods have seen fit to test my vows more times than that. Had I not been a man of the Night's Watch, they still made it hard for me to choose. He is as much as my kin as you are. So I do know about choosing. But now you must make that choice yourself, and live with it all the rest of your days. As I have." His voice fell to a whisper. "As I have . . . "


	55. Chapter 55

_**Andrew**_

The Hornwoods came in on a cold windy morning, bringing a hundred horsemen and near thousand foot from their castle at Hornwood. The steel points of their pikes winked in the pale sunlight as the column approached. A man went before them, pounding out a slow, deep-throated marching rhythm on a drum that was bigger than he was, boom, boom, boom.

Andrew watched them come from a guard turret atop the outer wall, standing vigil near the dragon's head. Lord Halys himself led them, his son Daryn riding beside him beneath orange banners sporting the black bull moose of their House.

They were the last, he knew. The other lords were already here, with their hosts. Once Andrew would have loved to ride out among them, to see the winter houses full to bursting, the jostling crowds in the market square every morning, the streets rutted and torn by wheel and hoof. Once when these men came under his father's command. They were his men now, not his father's and Andrew wasn't sure if he yearned to meet them as he once did.

He had met all these lords with their banners before, when they had come to Winterfell to fight wars and meet father. Thrice his father had fought Rhaegar in war and thrice he defeated the dragon king in the wars between their kingdoms. Andrew remembered seeing them and their banners twice when they came to Winterfell to march for battle. He had only been a babe at his mother's breast the first time his father called his banners against the Targaryens but the next two times he remembered seeing all of them in the yard, once perched at his mother's hip and the last clutching at her skirts. It almost seemed strange seeing them here now coming under his call. He remembered the mailed fist of the Glovers, silver on scarlet; the black bear of the Mormonts; the hideous flayed man that went before Roose Bolton of the Dreadfort; the white ironwood with the black sword for the Forresters; a battle-axe for the Cerwyns; three sentinel trees for the Tallharts; and the fearsome sigil of House Umber, a roaring giant in shattered chains. All of them, his father's men and now his men.

A year ago, before, he would have gladly visited them in the yard and received them as his father would do. In those days he was not much aware of what he might say to them when he sees them. Now that the moment was very much nearing he dreaded the whole thing. They brought the armies with them though, that thought should comfort him the very least.

And soon enough he would see their faces again, when he would have to show himself for the lords and their sons and knights who had come to Winterfell to see him. He wondered if the Great Hall would be large enough to seat all of them at once. His father used to seat all the lords and their sons inside, that might do.

"How many is it now?" Andrew asked Maester Walys as Lord Hornwood and his son rode through the gates in the outer wall.

"Fourty thousand men, or near enough as makes no matter."

"They are all here?"

Without a doubt," the maester said with a hint of smile. "I remember the day they came to see you for the first time. Even that day I had not seen as many people as they have come to see you now. Your father and mother showed you to all the great houses of the north and everyone here have seen you before. No doubt you've grown up a little now but that would not cause any problems."

"Aye," sighed Andrew. "No longer a babe and no longer have my parents with me."

Maester Walys sighed. "My lord, it only took one look for the people to see you who you are. The north remembers. Your father and mother are remembered still, there is no doubt of that."

"Yeah, but do they remember me though?" Andrew asked thoughtfully. It was one thing to show himself to the castle folk who saw him everyday and an entirely different thing to come before the people who saw a babe in swaddled clothes.

"They would remember you well enough to see you as Ned Stark's son," Maester Walys said. "You should meet them soon enough, your grace. The sooner the better."

"I'll be there today," he told the master. "I need to see them first."

"As you wish," Maester Walys said.

Andrew felt as miserable as he must have looked. The only family he had left remained in the cold halls of the crypts. He wanted to see them before he saddle the horse he meant to ride.

A series of chisel-cut handholds made a ladder in the granite of the tower's inner wall. Andrew went down in silence, hand under hand. Once he might have found another way down from the tower, a quicker way and more dangerous, but he was not an assassin anymore. He was expected to act the king.

Even Winterfell itself was crowded. The yard rang to the sound of sword and axe, the rumble of wagons, and the barking of dogs. The armory doors were open, and Andrew glimpsed Mikken at his forge, his hammer ringing as sweat dripped off his bare chest.

For near a full moonturn there had been so many comings and goings that he ordered both portcullises kept up and the drawbridge down between them, even in the dead of night. A long column of armored lancers was crossing the moat between the walls when he emerged from the tower; Hornwood men, following their lords into the castle. They wore black iron halfhelms and russet woolen cloaks patterned with the black moose head. Andrew slunk away from their sight and walked to the crypts in the shadows.

Two stone wolves stood guard at the entrance to Winterfell's crypts. As he stepped inside the blinding darkness, Andrew put two fingers into his mouth and whistled. Ghost came loping out from the godswood. The presence of the white wolf near him gave him the strength and comfort he needed.

He walked down a long dim hallway, Ghost padding easily beside him. The white wolf glanced up from time to time, eyes smoldering like bright burning embers. The hallway was lit with enough lanterns hanging from the walls on either side. Andrew walked past the stone kings on their thrones, eying him with their cold dead eyes as he passed. He hoisted the flowers in his hands when he reached his destination. The roses he had kept yesterday had already withered. He took them away and placed the fresh one in his mother's arms.

He stayed there for a while. The crypts was an island of peace in the sea of chaos that Winterfell had become. He needed the peace, needed them more than that.

Ghost nudged his head against his chest when he stood there forgotten of the time and his life. He rubbed the wolf under the jaw and made his way out, his shadow towering over the old kings of winter as he left them in their cold hall.

Beneath the shadow of the First Keep was an ancient lichyard, its headstones spotted with pale lichen, where the old Kings of Winter had laid their faithful servants. It was there they had buried his grandmother Lyarra. Next to her grave, he had buried the men who had died the day he took back Winterfell. He should do it atleast for them else their deaths would've been for nothing.

When the sun was right above his head, he left for his solar hiding away from all the stranger eyes in Winterfell.

He would want to meet the lords today no matter how hard it is for him. That's why he had come back here. The sooner it is done the sooner he can march south to get justice for his father and mother and . . . her.

Besides, it was his duty as the son of King Eddard Stark and Queen Ashara Dayne. His father never once shrunk away from his duty, no matter how hard it was. Andrew had seen it with his own eyes. How hard it was for him to leave mother and go to war. He wished he was here now. I must be strong like him as well, especially now.

He discarded his jacket and shirt and wore a brown coat befits a king. He would want to look kingly tonight before all those great lords. Once he laced his boots he turned around and looked at his father's crown on the table. Andrew ran his fingers gently over the circlet. The iron was engraved with ancient runes all over it. He wondered what they meant. Father would've known else he wouldn't have kept it. Maybe he should ask maester Walys about it.

By the time he was dressed and done, Ghost was curled up asleep beside the door, but he lifted his head at the sound of Andrew's boots. The direwolf's red eyes were darker than blood and wiser than men. Andrew knelt, scratched his ear. "Come on, boy. It's time."

Ghost sniffed at his face and tried a lick. Andrew smiled. "You're the one deserves an honor to be the king," he told the wolf . . . and suddenly he found himself remembering how he'd found him, that day in the wolfswood. His mother had died protecting Andrew and his mother from wildlings. For the sake of his dead mother's sacrifice, Queen Ashara had convinced his father to let Andrew keep him. They had raised him together too, him and his mother. And Ghost has saved his life more times than he could count.

"I need you there with me, Ghost," he told the white wolf.

He was about to walk back to take the crown when a knock at the door came.

Maester Walys' voice came through the door. "Your grace, you have a visitor."

"I told you I was coming down."

"Yes, sire. But you might want to meet him now."

"Very well. Send him in."

Andrew crossed the table and stood on the other side of the table. Vaguely he thought who would want to meet him now. Howland Reed, his father's friend, perhaps or jolly lord Manderly or . . . The door flew open and Andrew looked up.

His feet stuck to the floor and Andrew stared at him for some seconds. He could see utter amazement in the man's old and hardened face. Grey eyes watched him curiously and Andrew could not have felt more happier to see anyone else at that time. His white hair had grown past his shoulders and his snowy beard wild and unkempt, very much unlike the last he had seen him. Though older than any men Andrew had known in his life, he held himself atrongly as if to show that he had some years of life still left in him with his back straight as spear, the back where once he'd slung himself as the old man marched him around, both of them laughing.

He took a step forward and reached him to see if he was real, standing before him, and all of it was not a dream. He saw the old man's lips grow wide in a smile and Andrew could not help but return it. "My boy," his great-grandfather pulled him into a tight hug.

Andrew returned the embrace warmly and held onto the only family he had left. Rodrik Stark held him at arms length and looked at him from head to heel. "By the gods, you've grown."

"So are you," Andrew said with a smile.

"The others take me!" Rodrik Stark boomed when he looked him all around once again. "I cannot believe my eyes. You're here, alive and well."

"It's me, of course," Andrew told him, "at least as far as I know of it."

That made his great-grandfather grin. "They told me you were dead. How did you escape?"

"Mother saved me," Andrew said softly. "She gave herself to protect me." He then told the old man about Syrio and Illola and the girls patiently. He left Joy away from the story. She belonged in his heart and there she will stay until it stops so he could join her. He told him about Rhaegar and Braavos and how he reached here.

"Well, that's good," Rodrik Stark said thoughtfully when he was done. "You're back now, that's all that matters now."

"How did you survive?" Andrew asked. "I thought Rhaegar left no one alive."

"I wouldn't have survived," Rodrik Stark said, "but for your father's southern friends. Dondarrion and the Red Priest. They are with me as well and your cousin too, your mother's kin."

Edric. It's been years since Andrew had seen his cousin. It warmed his heart to know that he had some of his family left.

His grandfather eyed the crown on the table. "I see that you're the one responsible for Waterspring and the dragon's death."

"Yeah. I had some help as well." Help of some good folks who gave their lives to protect mine.

"Quite a way to come back from hell, son." His grandfather sat in the chair. "The whole north speaks of you. They are very eager to meet you, very much like me."

"Well," Andrew sighed and walked over to the hearth. "I don't think they'll be much impressed with what they see."

"Impressed?" Rodrik Stark said grimly. "Which of these lords could claim that he's killed a dragon? Who can say that he fought to free Winterfell? If anyone has any qualms in seeing you as Ned's son they can very well come and settle it with me. Though seeing your wolf here, I hardly find any reason for it."

"That's reassuring."

Rodrik Stark came near him. " I know things have been difficult for you. I know what you're feeling. Ever since you were a little boy, you've been living with so many unresolved things. Well, take it from an old man, those things send us down a road. They make us who we are. And if anyone's destined for greatness, it's you, son. You owe the people your gifts. Like your father did when his time came." Andrew turned to look him in the eye. "I see so much of your father in you. And your mother. I know that they would be very proud of you."

Andrew was tired. I need sleep. He had been up half the night discussing with Maester Walys and pondering over things that would happen tonight. Even after stumbling into his bed, rest had not come easily. He knew what he would face today, and found himself wondering restlessly. He brooded on his great-grandfather's words for some time.

"I'm ready," he said finally.

Andrew fastened his coat and strode outside. He left the crown on the table. I'll go to them as Ned Stark's son, not as a self styled king. Ghost left his place by the hearth and bounded to him at once. He walked to the Great Hall where the lords of the north has gathered. Ghost padded before him. He stopped at the heavy doors to the Great Hall and looked back for him with blood red eyes.

When the doors opened all eyes turned to him. They lords of the north were already at their places when Andrew walked in the centre, Ghost padding at his side. His great-grandfather followed him closely. He could hear people talking in low voices and all the eyes in the hall followed him as he passed. Two of lord Karstark's sons backed in their seat when they saw Ghost. He reached the high seat and allowed himself to sit in it proudly as his father had once sat. Ghost walked up to him and curled up around his feet, his red eyes scanning the room for any danger. Andrew saw Lord Beric and Thoros of Myr give him a smile as they came to his side beside Rodrik Stark. The boy at Lord Beric's side must be Edric. He was all grown up, not the little boy Andrew remembered. He had the Dayne coloring like aunt Allyria and uncle Aaron. Though his eyes were more indigo than the violet of his mother's. If that was not enough, the smile he gave when he saw Andrew told him enough. Andrew could feel the eyes of every man in the hall. Both people he had seen before and strangers alike. They were both afraid and amused to see him as they had been when they saw Ghost. It had grown quiet. "My lords," Poole announced, "His Grace, Andrew Stark, of Winterfell."

The Great Hall of Winterfell was filled with the lords of the north and their sons and their favored friends. Long trestle tables were arranged either side of the hall all occupied by men old and young alike. Andrew looked down at them from the high seat of the Starks, with Rodrik Stark at his side, and his father's bannermen arrayed to right and left and along the side tables. Word of the dragon's death and the victory at Winterfell had spread as far as to even reach the mountain clans, drawing them to Winterfell. Flint, Norrey, Liddle, Knott and dozen others. Andrew saw Buckets in the benches along with Howland Reed. Both Theo Wull and Lord Reed had been old friends of his father. Lord Wyman Manderly arrived from the White Harbor in barge and litter, his sons Ser Wylis and Ser Wendel accompanying him.

The Greatjon had come from Last Hearth far up from the north to represent the Umbers, and then Galbart Glover from Deepwood Motte, Rickard Karstark and his sons from Karhold, Roose Bolton from Dreadfort, Lords Dustin and Ryswell, Tallhart and Hornwood and Cerwyn. Even Lady Mormont and her daughter had come from Bear Island. He spied Lord Forrester in the hall and thought of his childhood friend at Braavos wondering what had happened to him.

The hall was very quiet for a moment. Andrew found the silence too much and started to talk. "My lords," he said, "I'm glad that you all came to Winterfell on my word. It's an honor to sit here in this seat where my father once sat, and receive you all to Winterfell."

"We live to serve you, your grace," Lord Howland Reed said. "As we served your father."

"Let me stop you right there, Reed," Roose Bolton interrupted. "How would you even know that this is our prince. For all we know prince Andrew died with the king and queen and why not show himself out to us for all these years? Why now?"

Ghost lifted his head up from his paws and glared Lord Bolton. For a moment Andrew could almost sense the rage of the direwolf.

"How do we know he is Ned's son?" Rodrik Stark boomed from his side. "Are you blind as a bat Bolton? Look at him, you've seen Ned before. And if that's not enough for you, see the direwolf at his feet. Andrew was the only one who had a wolf with him."

"Lord Rodrik is right," Lord Hornwood said. "That's our prince. The gods have seen it fit to give him back to us now."

"Aye," boomed the Greatjon. "That's the King's son, our prince. I did see him with his wolf once."

"Are we crowning a king in the name of a wolf and the truth of an old man's word?" Rose Bolton argued. "It's not like Lord Rodrik is young and his eyesight is clear still. It's almost a decade since he last saw his great-grandson."

Rodrik Stark unsheathed his steel. "Are you telling me I can't identify my own great-grandson, Bolton?" Beside him Lord Beric's men had drawn their swords out as well when the Bolton men in the benches went for their steel.

The arguing raged on late into the night. Each lord had a right to speak, and speak they did . . . and shout, and curse, and reason, and cajole, and jest, and bargain, and slam tankards on the table, and threaten, and walk out, and return sullen or smiling. Andrew sat and listened to it all. His father always used to listen to the lords before talking.

Many of the lords bannermen agreed him to be his father's son. Some voiced their doubts but it took a single look at Ghost and they grew quiet.

"You want to see that he is Ned's son, Bolton," asked the Greatjon. "Take your icy eyes out your arse and look at his face and the wolf beside him."

"I can assure for it, my lords," Maester Walys said. "I was there with the Queen the day he born. I still remember the prince having King Eddard's face and Queen Ashara's hair even as a little baby."

"You cannot mean that, maester," Roose Bolton said. "Half the whores in Westeros has dark hair, not just Queen Ashara."

Andrew could feel the edge of his tone grating on saying his mother as a whore. Rage bubbled up inside him. But then he chose to deal it with words rather than his sword as his father would have. "Tell me, Lord Bolton," Andrew said, "these whores you speak of, do their sons have any reason to jump inside a castle and battle a dragon to death?"

There was no answer to that. The hall seemed quiet after a series of sounds and voices.

"I know most of you could not believe a dead man standing before you," said Andrew, troubled. "Hell, I wouldn't believe it myself. You have the right to doubt it. You want to know how I escaped? To know how I watched my parents die? It was not just my family who died at Starfall. Lord Galbart, your kin Ethan Glover was in my father's personal guard and so was your son, Lord Rickard. Lady Mormont, you daughter Dacey was my mother's own sworn sword. Martyn Cassel, Mark Ryswell, James Norrey, Jon Locke, Gait Cerwyn all died to defend my family that day. And now I see all of you here, shouting and arguing and spitting over their names. You don't have to follow me or anyone, you can go back to your keep just as you came and I'll not hold it against you. I'm going to march south and bring Rhaegar to his knees to answer for his crimes with or without your help. I mean to see that justice is won for everyone who died at Starfall."

The hall was very quiet when he finished speaking.

"Everyone of you here fought with my father. People from the north, the south, great lords with ancient names, brave common folk, good men, loyal men all fought under my father's name. I'll not ask or demand that you do the same for me. My father used to say that we find our true friends on the battlefield. Yes, I liberated Winterfell and removed the Targaryen power from the north, but the war is not done with it. The man who is responsible for this sits high in the Red Keep of his. The war is not done for me until I see Rhaegar dies by my sword. I came here for justice for my family and my people and I will get it no matter what."

There were some mumblings after that but it subsided soon enough. Once that was settled they started to take the piss again. 

"If you're intending to start a rebellion against the current king," said Roose Bolton, "there has to be a realistic strategy. Strategy requires proper education, in the art of war, diplomacy and chivalry. Surely your royal father must have taught it to you, your grace. He after all was well educated."

"Aye," said one of Bolton's bannerman. "Is it not true that his grace was raised in a brothel?"

An inn, and by people wiser than you, he might've said. But he knew that it'll change nothing. Inn or brothel, it changes nothing.

"I demand to be given the command of the army," Bolton asked brusquely.

Greatjon Umber scoffed. "And what's next?" he asked. "If you're so set at rooting out the Targaryens, you should've done it before the prince killed the dragon."

Again the shouting began. Andrew sat dreading what they would throw at him next. He had come all the way here only to see them wage over the good people who died that day. If they would not listen still, they can keep their ears closed. He watched and listened to the lords debate, frowning, troubled.

Beside him, his great-grandfather tried his chance. "Your son was butchered at the Starfall massacre, Lord Karstark, yet you refused to lift a finger for it." He looked around the hall at all the lords. "Everyone here had lost their kin at Starfall but none said anything for it. You king and queen, the people whom you celebrated got murdered and you ignored it. The north remembers and Andrew remembered it. Andrew Stark avenged the Starfall massacre and everyone who died in the castle, people who were your own blood."

That seemed to quiet them a bit. Andrew was thinking of his parents and Joy, when the Greatjon lurched to his feet.

"MY LORDS!" he shouted, his voice booming off the rafters. "Didn't we all swear an oath to Ned Stark? Didn't we swear to protect his family and fight for him when we are called? Wasn't that what we told ourselves when we bowed to the dragons who murdered our king through treachery? We have waited eight years to get justice for our king and queen. Eight years we have waited for a way and we missed it every time we got it. The dragon might've kept us down, but the north remembers. We know no king but the king in the north whose name is a Stark." He reached back over his shoulder and drew his immense two-handed greatsword and pointed to Andrew with the blade. "There sits the only king I mean to bend my knee to," he thundered. "I don't care if he was raised in a brothel, I don't care if he is not so highly educated as you all are, Ned Stark's blood runs through his veins! He is my king from this day until his last day," he boomed. "The King in the North!"  
And he knelt, and laid his sword at his feet.

"I'll have peace on those terms," Lord Karstark said. "My son died for your father. I didn't think we would find another king in my life time. I didn't fight for that because I didn't want more Karstarks dying for nothing. But I was wrong. You're very much your father's son, Ned Stark's son, my king's son. Andrew Stark avenged the massacre at Starfall, he is the White Wolf." He eased his longsword from its scabbard. "The King in the North!" he said, kneeling beside the Greatjon.

Galbart Glover rose up next. "I did not fight beside you on the field or in this hall, and I'll regret that until my dying day." His face grew soft in guilt. "A man can only admit when he was wrong and ask forgiveness."

"There is nothing to forgive, my lord," Andrew said.

Lord Glover looked at his fellow lords around him. "There will be more fights to come. House Glover will stand behind House Stark as we have for a thousand years and I will stand behind Andrew Stark." He unsheathed his sword, steel scraping on leather and pointed it to him. "The King in the North."

Lady Mormont stood. "The King of Winter!" she declared, and laid her spiked mace before him. And just like that the air was filled with the sounds of dozen swords drawn from their scabbard. The other lords were rising too, Manderly and Hornwood and Tallhart and Cerwyn and Dustin and Ryswell and Reed and Flint and Liddle and Norrey and Wull and Forrester and even Roose Bolton. Andrew watched them rise and draw their blades, bending their knees and shouting the old words that had not been heard in the realm for almost a decade, since his father died . . . yet now were heard again, ringing from the timbers of the great hall of Winterfell:

"The King in the North!"

"The King in the North!"

"THE KING IN THE NORTH!"


	56. Chapter 56

_**Andrew**_

The white wolf raced through a black wood, beneath a pale cliff as tall as the sky. The moon ran with him, slipping through a tangle of bare branches overhead, across the starry sky.

"Andrew," the moon murmured in a strangely familier voice. The wolf made no answer. Snow crunched beneath his paws. The wind sighed through the trees.

Far off, he could hear his small grey cousins calling to him, but he ignored them. They were hunting too. The hills were warmer where they were, and full of food.

"Andrew," the moon called down again, gentle in his mother's voice now. The white wolf padded along the man trail beneath the icy cliff. The taste of blood was on his tongue, and his ears rang to the song of the hundred cousins. Once he had been with his mother, whimpering blind in the snow beside his dead mother, sucking cool milk from her hard dead nipples. But this one belonged to his other half, his human half.

"Andrew," the moon insisted.

The white wolf ran from it, racing toward the cave of night where the sun had hidden, his breath frosting in the air. On starless nights the great cliff was as black as stone, a darkness towering high above the wide world, but when the moon came out it shimmered pale and icy as a frozen stream. The wolf's pelt was thick and shaggy, but when the wind blew along the ice no fur could keep the chill out. The voice came from the other side where the wind was warmer, the wolf sensed. That was where the voice was, and the violet air smelled of roses.

An icicle tumbled from a branch. The white wolf turned and bared his teeth. His fur rose bristling, as the woods dissolved around him and Andrew Stark woke up upon his bed.

The room was dim, his bed soft. Grey light leaked through the shutters, showing that the day has broken just now. Andrew wriggled from under his blankets and moved to open the windows. Winterfell was calm and quiet even with all the men it hosted. Camps with different banners flying from the tents filled the outskirts of Winterfell. He could not see them all from the Great Keep but Andrew knew that it extended past Winter Town. He turned around to walk to the door just as Edric Dayne poked his head through the door. "Beg pardon," he said, "shall I fetch your grace some breakfast?"

So it is his day to wake me up today. "A bloody feast would do good," Andrew suggested. "And half a pint of ale." He was hungry for food. The dream of Ghost hunting and the taste of blood on his tongue awoke a new fit of hunger in him. Having a man fetch and serve for him still felt strange; back at Braavos, it would have been him serving food to the men at the inn when he was a young boy.

"Later, cousin," Andrew told him. "I will break my fast in the solar after meeting with the lords. And enough with this 'Your Grace' thing. We are family after all."

"Yes, my ki... Cousin," Edric said as he entered the room. "I'm glad to see you back again."

"See me alive you mean," Andrew chuckled.

"Alive," Edric said and they shared a laugh, "and good."

"You don't seem so bad yourself, coz." Andrew poured wine into two cups from his flagon on the table. "The last I saw you, I remember telling my mother that you were too little to play with."

"You wouldn't have found me so amusing then."

Andrew smiled and gave the cup of wine to his cousin. "As a babe, I never found any babes amusing besides myself. All they ever did was eat and sleep and I found it boring when I did them myself."

"It is hard to see yourself sleeping and getting annoyed because of it."

Andrew took a sip of his wine. "How is your father?"

Edric grew visibly upset at that. Andrew knew something was bad before even he spoke the words. "He is dead. The betrayal took all his strength away."

Another murder on Rhaegar's name. Andrew had always thought that Rhaegar Targaryen had scourged his entire family with fire and blood, but he had left some of them alive only to die in grief. Even if he didn't swing the sword, he was still responsible for his uncle Aaron's death. "What about Starfall?"

"Aunt Allyria rules in my stead," Edric said jovially. "No doubt she would love to see you again."

Aunt Allyria, sweet and gentle as a summer breeze. His mother had once told him that his aunt loved to hold him even more than her. She would have grown up now as well. "I thought to go to Starfall when I returned but I didn't want to go there without you all. Perhaps when the war is over we will go there together, cousin."

Edric nodded.

"I heard that you have been away from Starfall for a while, coz," Andrew continued. "If you want I can have a ship to take you back to Starfall." Edric was the Lord of Starfall, the only cousin he had, he will not put his life in danger for the sake of his war.

"Home is where heart is, your grace," Edric said. "And my heart lies with our family. With my father, your mother, our uncle and your father for whom I was named. I wish to ride with you, coz, and bring justice to those who wronged our family."

"Do you remember the tale of the last hero they tell us Daynes, Andrew?" Edric asked.

"How can I not?" Andrew said. He remembered every bit of the tale. It had been one of his favourites. His mother had told him of the story more times than he could remember. And Old Nan had a scary version of it whenever mother and father were doing other royal things. Every time he would ask her for a scary story she would click her needles and tell him the story of the Last hero, of giants, wights and others.

"Fear? Oh, my sweet summer child," Old Nan would say quietly whenever he asks her for a scary story, "what do you know of fear? Fear is for the winter, my little prince, when the snows fall a hundred feet deep and the ice wind comes howling out of the north. Fear is for the long night, when the sun hides its face for years at a time, and little children are born and live and die all in darkness while the direwolves grow gaunt and hungry, and the white walkers move through the woods."

"You mean the Others," Andrew remembered asking her, curiously.

"The Others," Old Nan had agreed. "Thousands and thousands of years ago, a winter fell that was cold and hard and endless beyond all memory of man. There came a night that lasted a generation, and kings shivered and died in their castles even as the swineherds in their hovels. Women smothered their children rather than see them starve, and cried, and felt their tears freeze on their cheeks." Her voice and her needles would fall silent, and she had glanced up at Andrew with pale, filmy eyes and asked, "So, child. This is the sort of story you like?"

"Well," Andrew had said reluctantly, "yes, only . . . "

Old Nan had noddedd and continued. "In that darkness, the Others came for the first time," she had said with her needles going click click click. "They were cold things, dead things, that hated iron and fire and the touch of the sun, and every creature with hot blood in its veins. They swept over holdfasts and cities and kingdoms, felled heroes and armies by the score, riding their pale dead horses and leading hosts of the slain. All the swords of men could not stay their advance, and even maidens and suckling babes found no pity in them. They hunted the maids through frozen forests, and fed their dead servants on the flesh of human children."

Her voice would drop very low, almost to a whisper, and Andrew had to lean forward to listen.

"Now these were the days before the Andals came, and long before the women fled across the narrow sea from the cities of the Rhoyne, and the hundred kingdoms of those times were the kingdoms of the First Men, who had taken these lands from the children of the forest. Yet here and there in the fastness of the woods the children still lived in their wooden cities and hollow hills, and the faces in the trees kept watch. So as cold and death filled the earth, the last hero determined to seek out the children, in the hopes that their ancient magics could win back what the armies of men had lost. He set out into the dead lands with a sword, a horse, a dog, and a dozen companions. For years he searched, until he despaired of ever finding the children of the forest in their secret cities. One by one his friends died, and his horse, and finally even his dog, and his sword froze so hard the blade snapped when he tried to use it. And the Others smelled the hot blood in him, and came silent on his trail, stalking him with packs of pale white spiders big as hounds—"

He could not remember her words after that. But he knew that the last hero escaped from the ice spiders and the Others somehow and found the children of the Forest and gained their assistance. He forged a magic sword to fight the Others and the Night's Watch was then formed. His mother told him of how the last hero slayed the Others with his magic blade and together with the armies of men he defeated the Others and won the Battle for the Dawn. His victory ended the generation-long winter and sent the Others into retreat, to the Lands of Always Winter.

Fallen and Reborn, the words associated with the last hero for he fell to the evil before he won became closely attached to the Daynes for their sword Dawn forged from the heart of a fallen star. The words became more important to his mother's house as important as their House words.

"Fallen and Reborn," Andrew told his cousin.

"Fallen and Reborn," Edric repeated. "We fell and I wish to rise up again from the ashes with you."

Andrew smiled. "If that is your wish, you shall ride with me to war, coz."

"Thank you, Your Grace," Edric knelt.

Andrew lifted him up to his feet. "No need for that now, cousin."

"I'll leave to get the lords for you." Edric stood up from his chair. He bowed his head and walked out the room.

Andrew thought about his dream when Edric left him. The wolf dreams had been growing stronger, and he found himself remembering them even when awake. Ghost knows things that men couldn't even understand. At the Wolfswood, he had come out of the darkness to save Andrew's life. When he took back Winterfell, Ghost arrived right when he needed the most. And he heard Joy's voice last night and then his mother's. He wondered if Ghost could sense them somehow.

He filled his basin from the flagon of water beside his bed, washed his face and hands, wore his white shirt and donned his long shearling trench coat. The brown trench coat detailed in soft leather finished with perfect stiching and a comfortable inner lining made of white wool to keep the cold away. The cuffs of the long sleeves and the high collar were also trimmed with soft white wool. He laced up his burgundy pants, and pulled on a pair of calf length boots. He set his father's crown atop his head after he was done with the clothing. When Andrew folded back the window with its thick diamond-shaped panes of yellow glass, the chill of the morning hit him in the face. He took a breath to clear away the cobwebs of the night.

Outside his bedchamber a flight of steps descended to his larger solar furnished with a brown ironwood table and a dozen and more oak-and-leather chairs. He might want to meet the lords bannermen in the solar to make the final plans for the long march to come. Meeting them in the Great Hall will take too much of time and will have too many ears to hear.

For the past few days Andrew found himself changed from his old self, transformed, a lord in truth, a lord and a king. Even his father's bannermen seemed to sense it. None tried to test him after that day. All the testing were done with Roose Bolton on that day they crowned him king. The first thing he had done after he was crowned was to call Lord Liddle and his heir whose name was Morgan, who had fed him that rainy day in the woods. He kept his vow to Morgan and paid the Liddles back a hundredfold for every nut and berry he had fed him. The Liddles had been stunned to see him as they got the thousand gold pieces and thanked him gladly. That had been the easy part though that didn't mean that all the issues stopped there. Much to his dismay most of it came from being the king after that. There was no scarce for issues. Every lord or lady he meets with in his solar had something for him. Stout, grey-haired Maege Mormont, dressed in mail like a man, asked him for ships once the war was over to deal with the ironborn. Soft-spoken Lord Cerwyn asked his son to be named in his honor guard. Jovial Lord Hornwood brought gifts everytime he came, a horse one day, a haunch of venison the next, a silver-chased hunting horn the day after, and he asked nothing in return . . . nothing but a certain holdfast taken from his grandfather, and hunting rights north of a certain ridge, and leave to dam the White Knife, if it please the king.

Andrew answered each of them with cool courtesy, much as his Father might have, and somehow he bent them to his will.

Lord Greatjon Umber who stood as tall as Hodor and twice as wide, urged him to march south as fast as he can so that they could avenge his parents by cutting off some dragon heads. And pale eyed Roose Bolton urged him to take caution and not move until he finds a way to take out the remaining Targaryen dragon off the skies like he did with the one at Winterfell. The sons and heirs of the lords were all hungry for glory that half of them wanted to lead the vanguard themselves while the others wanted to be named in his honor guard.

But somehow after that day they started to listen and respect him for who they saw him as. The Greatjon became his right hand, his staunchest champion, loudly telling all and sundry that the Avenger of Starfall would lead them to glory, and they'd damn well better bend their knees if they didn't fancy having them chewed off.

Theo Wull and Howland Reed, old friends of his father both of them, took his side more often than him and gave him wise counsel. Roose Bolton had thought to unnerve him with those pale, cold eyes of his but Andrew has seen and fought a dragon before to make him look like a boy. His father had been wary of Lord Bolton and always kept him close enough where he could watch his every movement. Andrew wished his father was here. He would know what to do with Bolton and how to slay those dragons.

He sat at a head of the ironwood table, in the ornate oaken chair, a pile of maps and papers in front of him, waiting for his bannermen.

His grandfather was the first to arrive, with Lord Beric and Thoros of Myr. Lord Howland Reed followed them to pay his respects after that, kneeling before him. The Glovers followed, Galbart and Robett, and Greatjon Umber, and Roose Bolton and the rest, one by one. When all of the lords bannermen were there Andrew started. "My lords, the time has come," he said to them. "Time to match for justice."

"Have no fear on that count, Your Grace," the Greatjon told her in his bass rumble. "We'll shove our swords up Rhaegar Targaryen's bunghole soon enough to avenge for your father and mother."

"A question if it please you, Your Grace?" Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort, said in a small voice.

"Do ask my lord Bolton," Andrew said.

"It is said that you were making plans to deal with the Targaryen dragons. Have you dealt with that? I believe, we would be at disadvantage should those dragons take air."

"Dragons or not," the Greatjon laughed. "We have the Dragonslayer with us. Why should we fear them?"

He knew Roose Bolton was right. The dragons of the Targaryens were bred for war and in war they died. But most of them had died fighting other dragons a couple centuries before when brother fought sister in their clash for the Iron Throne. Slaying dragons was a feat reserved only for songs and tales. Andrew had slain the beast mostly with the help of the vantage. From the ruined top of the Broken Tower even a dragon seemed climbable as easy as you would mount a stallion but he would find no tower at the battlefield. "We'll be bringing Mikken with us to make scorpion bolts strong enough to slay the beasts," Andrew told them. That was the only option he had to fell those dragons. It was the only way he had and he had to try it no matter what.

There was a sudden murmur among the lords and they nodded. When they became silent again Andrew continued. "No doubt King's Landing would have heard of me by now. Rhaegar and his ilk will come forth to meet us at once."

"Will he come though, Your Grace?" asked Lord Ryswell. "With the wedding of his son and the Dornish alliance at stake?"

"He would not want another Ned Stark alive on his lands," Andrew replied. "He will ride forth to meet us or will send his dragons to deal with us once and for all." He took the wooden block carved in the likeness of a Tyrell rose and put it beside the dragon placed on the King's Landing indicated in the map on the table. Then the Dornish sun went to the dragon as well.

"Dorne and Reach will fight for the dragon. The Tyrells are at King's Landing but Doran Martell sits at Sunspear. We will not reach King's Landing without fight."

"What of your father's southern friends?" Lord Rickard Karstark asked.

Robert Baratheon and Jon Arryn. Both men had loved his father as a brother and son respectively. Andrew remembered seeing them with his father and mother. Jon Arryn would bring gifts everytime and Lord Robert was always funny. He wondered if they might come to his aid if he called them. They would've come to his father's aid if he needed them but he is not Ned Stark.

"What of them?" asked Lord Robett Glover. "They would never join the dragon in the fight against us?"

"Should they join us, my king," said Lord Dustin, "we'll be three of the Seven Kingdoms together. Baratheon and Arryn in the field would mean the West and the Riverlands take up arms as well as they are all bound by marriage. That means five kingdoms against two."

"We don't need Tywin Lannister," the Greatjon said. "Ned hated him for sure."

His father had been wary of the Lannisters for sure that much was true. But Andrew wasn't sure if he should call for Lord Lannister's help or not.

"We need to make common cause with the south, my lords," Lord Manderly said, "if we are to meet against the might of Highgarden with the dragons."

"Mace Tyrell is a craven," declared the Greatjon. "Ned defeated his host three times without any difficulty. Why shouldn't his son do that now?

"Mace Tyrell may be a craven," Theo Wull said, "but Randyll Tarly, Edgerran Oakheart and Tanton Fossoway are all brave men, able men. Even Ned would tell you so."

The murmuring started again and shouts went back and forth.

"My lords," Andrew calmed them a bit. "My father taught me that no battle is won by the numbers. Battles are won by the cause and determination of the men who fight. We fight for a just cause, my lords unlike the Targaryens or Tyrells or Martells and with the strength in our arms and the will in our hearts we will defeat them again as my father once did."

The Greatjon roared out, "King in the North!" and thrust a mailed fist into the air. The other lords echoed with their shouts of "King in the North!" The hall grew thunderous with pounding fists and stamping feet.

When Andrew raised his fist the hall quieted again. "My father and mother always told me that the north is not a place but the people," he told his bannermen. "I'll not leave my people defenceless in their own land. My lords of the Mountains, you are as much fierce and loyal as any other men here. I task you to defend our people and our land."

Lord Wull took a knee. "We live to serve you, my king."

Torren Liddle and Morgan Liddle went down to one knee as welll, their clenched fists placed upon their chests. "It is an honor, sire."

The other lords of the mountain clans all voiced their approval.

"Your Grace," Theo Wull stood up. "Your father was liege and king to every man here and everyone loves him, there's no doubt in it. But he was my friend before everything else. Let me come and fight with you for my friend, your grace. If I should fall, let me fall fighting for my friend with his son."

"If that is your wish, you shall have it then," Andrew replied with a smile. He turned to his grandfather. "You and I both know that there must always be a Stark in Winterfell."

"Aye," Rodrik Stark said.

"You were the Stark in Winterfell whenever my father left."

"Only when you left with him as well, my king."

"Well, I have to leave now," Andrew told him, "And I want you to take my place once more."

His grandfather went down to one knee and bowed his head. "I'll not fail you as I had failed your father, your grace."

Andrew helped him back to his feet. "I know you won't, grandfather." He returned the smile the old man gave him.

He was at the point of telling their route when the door opened suddenly. "We'll march to Moat Cailin and..."

Maester Walys entered the room and Ghost followed him into the room. Andrew smiled to see the white wolf again. The direwolf padded across the room to where he sat and rubbed his head against his leg. Andrew scratched the white wolf behind the ear. Ghost laid near the hearth beside his chair, red eyes looking at the lords carefully.

"Your Grace," Maester Walys came in after Ghost. "Your uncle is here to see you."

Which one? He might've asked but then remembered that he had only one left. "Uncle Benjen?"

"Yes, sire," Maester Walys replied.

"Send him in," Andrew told him. It has been years since he had seen anyone and now that he has the chance to see them again he is not ready to miss it.

Maester Walys left at once, bowing.

The hall was quiet once again as he waited for his uncle to come. Andrew dismissed the lords and waited for some time for his uncle to arrive. When the doors opened again, it was his uncle who entered the room. As soon as he entered the room Benjen Stark gave Andrew a warm smile. The smile he remembered from his childhood.

Ben Stark crossed the room and pulled Andrew into his arms. "It's good to see you home, Andrew," he said and held him at arms' length. "Gods help me, you look so much like your father."

"How did you know I was here?" Did that mean Jaehaerys is at the wall now or has he heard the tale from some other way?

"The boy you sent to the Wall," his uncle said. "And I heard the tales of the Dragonslayer all along my way here." He smiled. "I knew it was you the moment I saw your quiet wolf in the woods." He looked to Ghost laying by the hearth. "I knew for sure then it has to be you."

He looked so tired and worn out from riding. He must've been riding hard and fast to come and see him. "Shall I sent for some refreshments uncle?" Andrew asked. "You look so tired."

"That might be good," Ben Stark said and sat down in one of the chairs.

"Wine and food to my solar," Andrew said to the guard outside and walked back to his seat. His uncle looked him from his crown to his boot.

"I see that they've crowned you with your father's crown, " he asked pouring wine from the flagon into his cup.

"Aye," Andrew replied. "It was with maester Walys."

"Good," Ben Stark said taking a bite of the bread placed on the table. "It suits you like it did for Ned."

He poured some more wine from the flag nand took a sip of it. "Summerwine," his uncle said after a taste. "Nothing so sweet. How many cups have you had, Andrew?"

Andrew smiled. "Not much."

Ben Stark laughed. "And your mother's words came true. So much like your father. Ah, well. I believe I knew the first time he got truly and sincerely drunk." He snagged a roasted onion, dripping brown with gravy, from the nearby trencher and bit into it. It crunched. "He wouldn't admit it but he once told me that it was the best day of his life." His uncle sighed. "It was the day he met your mother."

Andrew could feel the sadness in his tone. His uncle was sharp-featured and gaunt as a mountain crag, but there was always a hint of laughter in his blue-grey eyes. He dressed in black, as befitted a man of the Night's Watch. Tonight it was a set of black woolens, with high leather boots, well worn and ragged.

"I see that you are getting ready to march south." It was more statement than a question.

Andrew nodded. "I should march now or I should never march at all. The time has come uncle."

Ben Stark sighed in acknowledgement. "Just remember that the Starks don't do well in the south, Andrew."

That was true, Andrew knew. His grandfather, old Lord Rickard, had gone as south, with his son Brandon, and two hundred of his best men. None had ever returned. And Father had gone south, with mother and Andrew and Martyn and Ethan and the rest, only he had ever returned back alive from the south.

"That might be true," Andrew agreed. "But I have the fire of the south in me as well, uncle. My mother was from the Lands of Always Summer, you know."

His uncle laughed. "Right," he said, laughing. "And keep your direwolf close. There are still direwolves beyond the Wall. We hear them on our rangings."

"Speaking of which, how fares the Watch?" His father had always held the Watch in a high manner. He did every help he could do to the betterment of the Night's Watch. Andrew wanted to know how it stood now.

Benjen Stark gave Andrew a long look. "Not good it is if I have to be honest with you," his uncle said. "We've been losing more men in rangings for the last couple of years. There are dire news from both Shadow Tower and Eastwatch-by-the-sea. Beyond the Wall, the shadows lengthen. Cotter Pyke writes of vast herds of elk, streaming south and east toward the sea, and mammoths as well. He says one of his men discovered huge, misshapen footprints not three leagues from Eastwatch. Rangers from the Shadow Tower have found whole villages abandoned, and at night Ser Denys says they see fires in the mountains, huge blazes that burn from dusk till dawn. Quorin Halfhand took a captive in the depths of the Gorge, and the man swears that Mance Rayder is massing all his people in some new, secret stronghold he's found, to what end the gods only know."

"Mance Rayder?" Andrew asked confused. He's not heard of this Mance Rayder before.

"A self styled King-beyond-the-Wall," his uncle answered. "Crowned himself as King few years after the death of your father. If Ned was here, I would not worry about any of this like I do now. Still the wildlings are the least of our worries. The cold winds are rising, Andrew. Winter is coming."

"Winter is coming," Andrew agreed. He could feel a sudden chill to the bones as he said his house words.

"Will you stay here for a while, uncle?" he asked.

"Can't do, Andrew," his uncle answered. "I am to lead a ranging soon. They will be expecting me. I wanted to see you and I've seen you. I've got no reason to be here now."

"Atleast spend the night here," Andrew suggested. "You look like you could do good with a nice featherbed to sleep upon."

Benjen Stark thought about it for a moment. "Alright then," he said at last. "I'll stay for the night."

They had a good talk for the rest of the day. Andrew told him about how his mother had saved him at Starfall, he told him about Braavos and the other things. He met with Rodrik and somehow all three Starks had a good time together before they seperate once again.

When night came at last, to mark the last day he would spent at Winterfell, Andrew took his time with the paintings of his parents he'd hung on the wall behind his bed. He never knew how much time he'd stood there watching the but when Maester Walys came to him Winterfell had gone silent.

The maester counseled him to remain at Winterfell. But Andrew denied him that. "I did not come all the way here to sit in some castle while my father's killer dance around," he told the maester. "I'll go forward no matter what it takes to cut off Rhaegar's head. I'll do whatever it takes to bring him to justice."

"I'm not asking you to stay here forever, my lord," he insisted. "But wait until some time so you could go to war in better terms."

"I have to go now," Andrew told him. "Rhaegar would've gotten my raven by now."

"I understand that, my lord," Walys said. "But there must be always a Stark in Winterfell. Without you-"

"Rodrik Stark is here," Andrew cut him off. "He is as much a Stark as me."

"Your father's grandfather," the maester argued. "An able man, no doubt but still an old man, your grace."

"My father always led his men to war. That didn't trouble him so."

"Your father had you," Maester Walys said. "No matter how hard the odds were stacked against him he never left you and your royal mother without proper protection. I'm telling you, my lord, your mother gave her life to protect yours. Do not throw that life away for nothing and make her sacrifice go in vain."

Andrew looked at his mother on the painting with his father. She looked so happy in the picture that it hurt him so much so he found it hard to retain his composure. "What is that you want me to do?"

"Marry, Your Grace," Walys said. "Mar-"

That was all he could hear before him stopped the maester again. No, this would never happen. Not after her, not after Joy. The wound was still too fresh that he found it hard to even think about it. "No," he said at once.

"Wed the Baratheon girl as your father promised your hand to. Get her with child and then go to your war."

"And what's after that?" Andrew asked him. "What if I should fall in the war? What of the girl then?"

"The Stark line will still continue, my king," answered Maester Walys. "Your cause will not die in one day. Think about it, my lord. Don't let all that's happened to go in vain."

Andrew thought about it for a moment. Forgive me, he thought at last. "Fine," he caved then. "Send your ravens. I'll meet them at Riverrun."

"Thank you, Your Grace." He bowed so low as he left. "Thank you."

When he left Andrew buried his face in the thick white fur of Ghost and went to sleep dreaming of a maid fair as summer with sunlight in her hair.

The next day, as the red dawn broke across the windswept sky, Andrew found himself in the yard beneath the gatehouse, leaving Winterfell once again, this time leading an army. He said his farewells to his uncle with a last tight hug.

"Be careful, Andrew," Ben Stark said as he mounted his own garron.

"I will be," Andrew replied. But somehow he found himself concerned about his uncle more than he did for himself. "You too, uncle."

When his uncle smiled and ledt for the north, Andrew mounted his white stallion, Frost strapped across his back and his crown on his head and made for south.

He wheeled his courser around and trotted through the gates of Winterfell. Ghost followed, loping beside his warhorse, lean and swift. Hallis Mollen went before him through the gate, carrying the rippling white banner of House Stark atop a high standard of grey ash. Beric Dondarrion and the Greatjon fell in on either side of him, and their men formed up in a double column behind them, steel-tipped lances glinting in the sun.

As Andrew passed beyond the castle walls, a roar of sound went up. The foot soldiers and townsfolk cheered for him as he rode past; cheered for the King in the North, for the Lord of Winterfell on his great stallion, with his coat streaming and Ghost racing beside him.


	57. Chapter 57

_**Argella**_

The rain still fell, soft and steady. The sound of moisture dripping off the walls was all around her, and every ten feet away or so the music of another little waterfall would call to her flowing from the crenellations.

Argella notched the arrow to her bow, drew it back to her ear and waited and waited and waited for the wind to pass. When the thunder rumbled in the distance and the bright blue flash of the lightning lit the sky behind her, Argella Baratheon loosed her arrow. The arrow took flight, spearing through the storm and riding along with the wind as a falcon might soar up high in the sky. She was happy about the way it went racing until a particularly large gust of wind took the arrow away in its silvery fingers.

"Stupid wind," she shouted when she saw her arrow scattering across the yard in the wind as an autumn leaf would be scattered in a gust.

It was vexing her beyond any limits. For years Argella has been trying to brave the storm with her bow and arrow just as tonight and every time it had ended up the same. When she heard the distant roar of the thunder indicating the arrival of another storm, Ella had sneaked away from the dinner, got to her chambers swift as a deer, picked up her bows and arrows and stepped out onto the Drum tower of Storm's End to brave the storms as her ancestor had once done. But unlike Durran she has not had much luck in doing so. But only for now, she thought as she raised up her now. Durran stole the daughters of two gods and then went on to defy both their might. Why shouldn't she do the same?

The songs said that Storm's End had been raised in ancient days by Durran, the first Storm King, who had won the love of the fair Elenei, daughter of the sea god and the goddess of the wind. On the night of their wedding, Elenei had yielded her maidenhood to a mortal's love and thus doomed herself to a mortal's death, and her grieving parents had unleashed their wrath and sent the winds and waters to batter down Durran's hold. His friends and brothers and wedding guests were crushed beneath collapsing walls or blown out to sea, but Elenei sheltered Durran within her arms so he took no harm, and when the dawn came at last he declared war upon the gods and vowed to rebuild.

Five more castles he built, each larger and stronger than the last, only to see them smashed asunder when the gale winds came howling up Shipbreaker Bay, driving great walls of water before them. His lords pleaded with him to build inland; his priests told him he must placate the gods by giving Elenei back to the sea; even his smallfolk begged him to relent. Durran would have none of it. A seventh castle he raised, most massive of all. Some said the children of the forest helped him build it, shaping the stones with magic; others claimed that a small boy told him what he must do, a boy who would grow to be Bran the Builder. No matter how the tale was told, the end was the same. Though the angry gods threw storm after storm against it, the seventh castle stood defiant, and Durran Godsgrief and fair Elenei dwelt there together until the end of their days.

Gods do not forget, and still the gales came raging up the narrow sea. Yet Storm's End endured, through centuries and tens of centuries, a castle like no other. Its great curtain wall was a hundred feet high, unbroken by arrow slit or postern, everywhere rounded, curving, smooth, its stones fit so cunningly together that nowhere was crevice nor angle nor gap by which the wind might enter. That wall was said to be forty feet thick at its narrowest, and near eighty on the seaward face, a double course of stones with an inner core of sand and rubble. Within that mighty bulwark, the kitchens and stables and yards sheltered safe from wind and wave. Of towers, there was but one, a colossal drum tower, windowless where it faced the sea, so large that it was granary and barracks and feast hall and lord's dwelling all in one, crowned by massive battlements that made it look from afar like a spiked fist atop an upthrust arm.

The storm was getting better of her. The seaward side of Storm's End was perched upon a pale white cliff, the chalky stone sloping up steeply to half again the height of the massive curtain wall. It brought all the storms from the sea to break upon the walls of Storm's End. No matter how hard the storms were Storm's End endured, as it had thousands of years before both from the storms of the gods and the storms of men. But no matter how hard she tried her arrows did not fare well against the wind.

She could best all of her father's and grandfather's archers alike in the yard whenever she could fool her mother to step into the yard with the men but even as a little girl who has held a bow for the first time in her hands, Ella's dream was to best the storms in her lands she so much loved. She had been so close to it until the squall blew away her dreams as it did her arrow.

"Skipping dinner again now, are we?" The voice sounded over the raging storms outside the walls. Argella turned back to see her brother standing behind her, drenching in the rain. His face was hidden by the hood he was wearing but she could make out his face even in the dark. Looking at him suffering in the rain, it was then she wondered how drenched she was in the first place. She must have been out here in the open for some time now though she couldn't tell how much. Time and food meant nothing when she had her now in her hand.

"You lied to me," Ella shouted back to her brother. Unlike her brother who inherited the commanding voice of their father, Ella had gotten the sweet voice of their mother.

"When did I ever do that?" Gendry asked her, confused.

Ella showed him the arrow. "You told me that these were strong enough to tear past any wind," she notched the arrow to her bowstring. "Look how it does that." She let go and the arrow got caught in the rough grasp of the gale.

"No arrow can push past a storm, Ella," Gendry told her. He took an arrow from her quiver and showed her the grey fletching done in duck feather. "These take the arrow through the wind. No matter how sharp I tip the steel your arrows would get lost in the storm because they are light."

"No," Ella said holding her chin up. "I can do it, you'll see." She too possessed every bit of the Baratheon stubbornness that her brother had If Gendry could smash three grown men in the yard with his war hammer at once she could very well get an arrow to rip through the air to the other side.

"Oh, I have no doubt of that." He chuckled.

A bolt of lightning flashed overhead lighting the stormy dark sky. The rumble of the thunder followed it after a few seconds. Gendry pulled his hood down over his head tightly and looked up at the stormy sky. Even Ella flinched a bit at the boom of the thunder.

"Anyway you shouldn't be out here, little sister," her brother said. "What would you do if a storm takes you away?"

"I'm not afraid of it," she replied. "They did nothing to Elenei, why should they bother me?"

"Right," Gendry laughed. "Perhaps we ought to find you a Durran who loves to brave the winds and tides with you."

Argella scowled. "Who needs a Durran when you can be a Durran yourself?"

"As you say," her brother said. "But can you just get back inside. Father wants to meet you and mother would just rip me apart if you hurt yourself."

She would have toyed with him a bit if it were any other time but if her father chose to call her in such a late hour it might be important and she did not want to keep him waiting. There were many words she could describe her father with but patience was not one of them. Robert Baratheon had never been a patient man even as a boy growing up in the Eyrie. Lord Jon Arryn has told her more than once.

They both stepped inside the drum tower safe from the rain and howling gales. The water ran down her gown and dripped onto the floor from her skirts into a puddle. "Do you know why he wants to meet me?" Argella asked pulling her hair free from her braid. Her long black locks hung wet and heavy past her waist and Ella wrung some of the water out of it.

"I don't know, Ella, but it sounded urgent," Gendry said as he shook his cloak to dry it. "There is a raven from the north."

"From the Eyrie?" Ella asked.

"No," Gendry said. "From the real north."

The north. No word ever came from the north, not after her father's friend was gone. As she climbed down the steps leading to her father's solar, Ella desperately wished that whatever it was it doesn't lead to her parents fight once again. She opened the door to his solar and saw exactly what she didn't want to see. Inside her father and mother were fighting once again.

Cersei Lannister was looking outside the window facing the other side of the sea while Lord Robert sat in his chair clutching a roll of parchment in his hand. Her mother turned away from the window, her skirts swirling around her slender hips. "How dare you try to ship our daughter off to some lowborn bastard!"

"How many times should I tell you Cersei," her father was saying. "The northerners would never have crowned him if he was not Ned's son."

"You are blinded by your grief or love if you wish to call it."

Her father was not amused. "Say what you will, we'll go north just to see if he is Ned's," he said. "Jon has sent word too. He has called the banners already, as it happens."

"You can go anywhere you want but leave my daughter out of it."

Both of them didn't even care that she was there and they went back and forth with words. "She is my daughter too."

Her mother scoffed. "Good of you to claim her like that, but I would not allow you to sell her like a bag of oats"

"Damn you, woman," her father said. "She was betrothed to him even as a girl."

"Betrothed to a prince. Did you truly imagine that I'll let you ship her off to some baseborn from the north?"

"Now, that's enough," her father slammed his clenched fist on the table. "We'll go north, that's it. You can come with us if you wish or you can bloody well stay here and be quiet."

Cersei Lannister paced away from him, restless as a lioness, skirts swirling. Before her mother could say something to enrage father further Argella let herself be known. "You wished to see me, father.

When Lord Robert saw her he sent his wine cup on the table. "Come here, Argella," he said, not unkindly. "Sit beside me." He set the flag on aside.

Her mother came to her at once and put her arms around her. "I want you to see reason, Robert," she said once again.

Her father ignored that. "You too, boy," he told Gendry. "Stay. I would like to talk to you as well."

When her brother took his seat, their father continued. "I did not call you here to see your mother and me bicker as ever. You do know that you were betrothed to Andrew Stark, don't you?"

For a second Argella found herself too stunned for words. She knew that she was expected to marry but she did not envision it so soon. And her betrothed. The last thing she remembered of Andrew is the little boy who had played with her brother during his time at Storm's End before he went south with his father and mother. And the raven came back from the south did not bring any good news. There have been no talks of her betrothal Andrew in Storm's End after that but now that it was coming she could see that something was going on. And father's words about Ned's son and a crowned king . . . was the boy she remembered from her childhood really back from the dead?

"Is that true that he is alive father?" Gendry asked.

Argella raised her eyebrows at that. He seemed more interested in the man whom she was promised to than she ever was. True they were good friends while they were together but she did not expect her brother to be excited that much. She might have teased him about it if the room was not so tensed as it was right now.

"The letter came in Ned's own seal," her father said at last. "I don't think we should take this lightly."

Robert Baratheon turned to his daughter. "I would never force you to do anything, Argella," he told her, "but I must tell you that you would never find a man better than Ned's son."

Argella thought about it for a moment. She could not even believe that her father had given the choice to her and she loved him for it. She felt a little insecure about marrying a man she only knew from her memories. Even those memories were not much to begin with. She had always known that no matter how much she wanted to be a free person, there will a day come when she would be expected to fulfil her duty to her family and House and the day has arrived. The call has come for her and now it is time for her to answer it whether she likes it or not. Ella sat straight with her head up. If she was to marry it will be on her terms. She would not weep and complain about it.

"I'll honour your word, father," she said at last. "I'll do my duty and marry if that's what you ask of me."

Father's mouth twitched with a tired smile. "I have no doubt that he will treat you well. It's Ned's son. He would never hurt you in any way."

Let's hope that it is true, father, Ella thought. But she kept silent.

"Do you really want to do this?" her mother flared. "Robert, I swear. . ."

"It's alright, mother," Argella cut her off. "I remember my duty to our house and I'll do it without fail."

Her mother looked as if she wanted to say more but then stopped.

"Very well, then," her father said. "I'll call the banners and we'll match north as soon as we can." He touched her cheek, his thumb lightly tracing the line of a cheekbone. "You can go now, sweet," he said smiling.

By the time Argella returned to her chambers it was well deep into the night. But sleep has lost its savor with the knowledge of her wedding. She climbed up the stairs atop the Drum tower. The pouring rain and raging storm had quieted a bit.

As Argella looked at the quiet waters of the Shipbreaker bay which had seethed in fury a while before she wondered if this is what her own life is becoming. She had been wild and free and untamed like the sea and the storms of her lands and somehow it felt as if she couldn't be them anymore.

She thought about her husband to be. Andrew was already a hero king, a legend fit enough to be praised in songs and tales alike. Andrew the Dragonslayer, even that had a nice ring to it. And she will be there ruling beside him. But there will be no songs for her. No, she will have her husband's bed and his children. Songs and tales will be reserved for Andrew, him and her father and brother.

Argella thought about her own namesake, Queen Argella, the first and last Queen of Storms, of how she was brought to her marriage bed bound and gagged. While she will not go to her marriage bed crying and whimpering, the world will see that she is Argella Durrandon reborn. She is always said to be more of a Durrandon than a Baratheon though and her storm will never wither out.


	58. Chapter 58

_**Rhaegar**_

He killed a dragon," the king said.

"He did, my king." The messenger's voice was dulled by exhaustion. On the breast of his faded surcoat, the red three headed dragon of House Targaryen was half-obscured by dried mud and sweat.

"And my son?" Rhaegar asked. The messenger flinched for a moment. He looked down at his worn boots caked in dried mud. No wonder his son's men raced to him all their way from White Harbor.

"He sent Prince Jaehaerys to the Wall, Your Grace," the messenger said never looking up from his boots.

To the Wall. The king knew he should be happy that Jae was not sent to a block and an executioner but somehow he couldn't help to bring himself to it. He had sent enough men with his son to hold Winterfell and here they are with a sack of bones and some stupid legend of the Born King while his son is freezing in some frozen chamber of his. His scroll might tell him that they were destined for it but not like this, defeated and humiliated.

His small council members had fallen very quiet as the courier told his tale. The only sound was the crackle and hiss of the log burning in the hearth at the end of the small council room.

The moment they brought the messenger from the north in, Rhaegar knew that not even a single breath he had in his lungs meant good. He had put an end to the court and brought him to the small council chambers at once. It would do no good for the realm to hear this long dead legend once again. It will only stir up the chaos that's already made up for me. Derek's disappearance, his son's banishment to the Wall, the north is lost for sure now. The boy would be coming south by now if the messenger from Winterfell was anything to go by. Damn the north, damn them all.

Somehow the day he had been dreading all these years had come at last. So it had all been for nothing. The blood, the sweat, the battles, the bodies . . . all for naught. So that Stark's son could grow out from his grave to come and haunt me.

"How could this happen?" Mace Tyrell grew puffy and red. "How? The Stark line was ended that day, cut down to pieces . . . how could this boy have survived? There must've been a mistake."

That is why I told likewise to you, you fat fool, Rhaegar thought. One word of Stark and you'll tremble in fear. Mace Tyrell's only accomplishment was making the last stand against Ned Stark's forces to help them retreat in the Battle of Wolfswood and that too was done by Randyll Tarly.

"There is no mistake, my lord," the courier said. "We'd locked the castle and left no way for anyone to get in or our, yet it was not enough. No one was expecting an attack. Stark killed the men upon the walls during night to keep them from warning. The prince told us it had been the outlaws. Ser Derek had gone out to deal with them before . . . well, with what we thought was them. No one was expecting to see him there, your grace. The people started fighting the next day and he came out from his hiding when Prince Jaehaerys called in his dragon. And he . . ."

Killed it, that left unsaid.

"We all saw him, my lords," the messenger continued. "The people recognized him at once and he even had the wolf with him. The white one, big as a horse with eyes red as blood."

"What of Darkfang?" Jon Connington asked.

The bloodstained messenger shook his head. "He took the cream of our garrison to deal with the outlaws, my lord. But we've heard nothing else."

"You said he came out to slay the dragon," Jon Connington prompted.

The man gave a weary nod. "It's some dark sorcery, my lord. Andrew Stark might have wounded the beast but it was the weapons he used killed the dragon. Don't know what is that he used to coat on his spear but it was darker stuff even the dragon was afraid of it. And his sword . . . it didn't melt. We all felt the heat coming off the beast but it did nothing to the sword."

That is interesting. The insides of a dragon was always burning hotter than a thousand furnaces lit up all at once. He wondered even if valyrian steel could endure that much of heat. Somehow he think not.

"And what were you doing during all of this?" Rhaegar asked.

"The prince challenged him to a single combat, my king," the messenger said. "We tried to tell him that it's unwise after what had just happened but he insisted. The castle folk opened the gates to the direwolf too."

Smart boy, Rhaegar thought, swirling his cup and staring down into the winy depths. Using his wolf as an advantage to put fear in the minds of his enemies like they did with their dragons. He does have some brain. That didn't surprise him, given Andrew Stark was as much a son of Ashara Dayne as he was Ned Stark's. After all the last thing she ever did was to outwit him to save her son though.

"You were sent to Winterfell to guard the prince, weren't you?" Aurane Waters spoke up for the first time. "Yet here you stand and our prince is at the Wall with the Night's Watch."

"You don't know what it's like there, my lord," the messenger was saying. "You were not there. The beast was close to his side, as big as a horse. It wouldn't let anyone near him."

"Gods save us," Varys swore.

"The prince told us to take the bones back, my king," the messenger said. "Only a few of the men I brought from the north are still with me. The others quietly got away."

"Curse them all." the Hand of the King sounded more angry than surprised. "We need to get prince Jaehaerys back."

Rhaegar pressed his temple with his fingers. He need to bring Jaehaerys back from the Wall but not before this new Stark king is dealt with. The boy is posing a threat as much as his father did.

"Your work here is done," Rhaegar told the messenger. "I'll have the steward provide you meat and mead. You may leave."

The man looked up and bowed hesitantly and took his leave.

There was a deep silence in the room after he left.

"How could it happen?" Mace Tyrell asked again, breaking the silence. "Prince Jaehaerys gone, a dragon lost . . . this is a catastrophe!"

By then Rhaegar had enough of him. "I am sure we are all grateful to you for pointing out the obvious, Lord Tyrell," he said. "The question is, what shall we do about it?"

As always Tyrell had no answer to it. "Good," the king said, "I expected that."

"Beg your pardon, your grace," Grand Maester Pylos broke in. The young master was trembling, his face as pale as snow. "If I may, there was a raven earlier this day with this letter. See here." He took the rolled parchment and gave it to him.

Rhaegar examined the roll of parchment sealed with hard grey wax bearing the direwolf insignia. Stark, he knew at once. He crushed the seal open with his thumb and flattened the parchment and read.

To Rhaegar Targaryen

You killed my father and my mother and destroyed my family. You hurt my people did us harm although we had not done you any previous injury. You tried to eradicate my family and now I'm coming to get my justice for your crimes against mine.

You gave support to the tyrants who had done my people harm, and put my people to blade. You killed my father through treachery and took pleasure in it.

Know that any chance for peace my father wanted with you ended right in that moment you made your toast at Starfall. To get my justice for all your crimes, I am therefore leading an expedition against you, to pay this long lost debt.

Approach me therefore as the lord of the seven kingdoms to settle this once and for all. If you are afraid of suffering harm at my hands by coming in person, send some of your friends to do your fight for you. If you want to say anything to save yourself, let me know in proper terms or I shall take steps to deal with you as a criminal. On the other hand, if you wish to keep your throne, then stand and fight for it; but do not run away, for wherever you may hide yourself be sure I shall seek you out.

It was signed,

Andrew Stark,

Lord of Winterfell and King in the North.

For a moment Rhaegar's eyes fogged over the words and he saw the pair of grey eyes he had seen once in Braavos moonturns before. He could not say whether it was because of fear or of surprise. So Slynt is dead too. One less lackey for me to deal with. This is the one who had come so close to killing him at the gutters of Braavos. He could feel those cold eyes in these words.

"My lord?" Jon Connington called, when he had been staring at the letter for too long.

Rhaegar extended the letter to his Hand and bid him to read. Rhaegar did not miss Jon's eyes going wide open as the eyes of the lord hand skimmed over the contents of the letter.

"Do it," Rhaegar said calmly.

Jon Connington took a moment to catch his breath and then started reading. When he was done, Rhaegar looked around the table to see the faces of his council members. Everyone of them had gone pale. The eunuch hid his features nicely but the king saw the shock evident on his plump powdered face. He could see Littlefinger calculating at the very moment, no matter placing his bets. Even Ser Gerold showed a flicker of surprise.

"These are the terms the boy king offers me," Rhaegar said after a while.

Littlefinger scoffed. "Stark has got some balls, no doubt of it," he said mockingly. "I bet he is all talk."

"He killed a dragon and sent my son to the Wall. Sure this is all talk for you," Rhaegar said acidly. "Damn him and damn me. I knew this day would come sooner or later. We hunted the pack but let the pup get away and now the pup has grown up into a wolf and is back to hunt us. I knew this would happen and that's why I asked Viserys to get the boy at all costs. Instead my brother was so interested in Ashara Dayne's cunt that he seemingly forgot her son and what I had asked him to do."

"If only Prince Viserys had caught him in the first place," Mace Tyrell spoke quietly.

Rhaegar snorted disdainfully. "If only Ned Stark hadn't bred Ashara Dayne in the first place," he said to his master of laws. "Can you go and stop Eddard Stark from fucking a babe into his wife, Lord Tyrell?"

Tyrell shook his head. Rhaegar continued, "Yes, I believed so. You can't stop it from happening no more than you can blame it on Viserys. The cow has been milked there is no way of squirting the milk back into its udders. No good ever comes from thinking about the past."

The king turned to his hand. "Jon you have the Stormlands with you, yes?"

"Yes, your grace," Lord Connington bowed his head. "My cousin rules in my stead."

"Good," Rhaegar said. "Send a raven to him and ask him to call the banners. We cannot let Robert join with this boy."

He looked at Lord Tyrell. "Send a raven to your heir and get him to call your banners," Rhaegar commanded. "Send one of your sons to Highgarden and march your army back up north, my lord."

"At once, your grace," the lord of Highgarden said.

"If it is war he wants then he shall have war," Rhaegar told his council. "If he thinks himself to be the next Eddard Stark I'll show him how I killed the first one. We should march on Stark at once before he could join forces with Jon Arryn and Robert Baratheon."

"Pylos, send a raven to Sunspear and ask Doran Martell to call his spears. I've had enough of this Born King stupidity and I intend to make him a legend quickly. Now, leave me. All of you."

Ever the soul of obedience, his council members rose to depart, one by one, even Ser Gerold. "

Rhaegar eased himself back onto his chair. He poured the wine from the flagon into his cup and took a sip thoughtfully. The rich Arbor gold was cool in his mouth.

A decade of peace and still Eddard Stark manages to trouble him from his grave. Curse him and his bones. Curse me for trusting Viserys and Slynt. All I have are lickspittles, lackeys and jackanaps. Even his own son had failed him. The dragon falling before a wolf. Madness. Absolute madness. Rhaegar wondered what his father would think of that.

Stark is the true power threatening his realm, the same way his father once did. Taking him out will cripple the north once more. But he had to do it somehow. He reached for his wine, and considered for a moment as he sipped. It was the last thing Rhaegar Targaryen would ever have anticipated. But somehow the time for it had arrived.

He finished his wine and set the cup aside, thoughtful. A part of him was more pleased to end the boy than he cared to admit. Another part was remembering the battle in the north, and wondering if he was about to repeat it again.

Rhaegar stood abruptly, and made for the door. Outside the moon had already taken the place in the clear, starless sky. He took a long breath and climbed down the stairs leading to the lower floor. The king crossed the Traitor's Walk which led to the squat, half-round tower through where the dungeons could be accessed. The top floor of the tower held the cells for prisoners kept in a degree of comfort, to the knights and lordlings who might be ransomed. The entrance to the dungeons sat on the ground floor. Rhaegar made his descent down to the dungeons. It was not far away. Soon he came upon the hammered iron door which stood at the entrance of the dungeons.

Inside, the corridor was so poorly lit that Rhaegar took a torch from the sconce on the wall. He did not have to walk for long to reach his destination. Two men dressed in the dark attire of the Targaryen guards, their faces hidden behind their helms stood guard at the entrance of the dark, dank emptiness which stretched down.

"Leave," the king told them. The men uttered no words and left at once. He lowered the torch and the light bathed the steps descending into the darkness.

Rhaegar stepped down the narrow stairs one at a time, his heels scraping against the rough stone as they descended. It was very cold within the stairwell, a damp bone-chilling cold that set him to shivering at once. It was always cold in here, he knew. Unlike most others he knew the history of this place.

During the construction of the Red Keep, Maegor the Cruel had decreed four levels of dungeons for his castle. On the upper level, were the large cells where common criminals may be confined together. They had narrow windows set high in the walls. The second level had the smaller cells where highborn captives were held. They had no windows, but torches in the halls cast light through the bars. On the third level the cells were smaller and the doors were wood. The black cells, men call them. That was where the traitors and turncloaks were kept. But there was a level lower still. Once a man is taken down to the fourth level, he never sees the sun again, nor hears a human voice, nor breathes a breath free of agonizing pain. Maegor had the cells on the fourth level built for torment. It was there he had kept his most prized possession. He reached the bottom of the steps. An unlighted door opened before him.

For the sake of his own well being Rhaegar had keep the cell very near to the door. There were more sinister things in the deeper levels that no man would wish to see. He put the torch in it's sconce on the wall and shouldered aside the heavy wood-and-iron door and stepped into the darkness. The little light through the small openings on the door showed him his way but spared him the foul views farther.

"Fancy another visit, my lord," he heard the voice before even seeing the person. Years spent in the dank cell hadn't taken away the sweetness it had. "I am not yet dead if that's what you'd wished to see."

He heard the faint rattling of the chains as he stepped inside the cell. The plate of food left beside the door stayed untouched.

"I see you had no taste for the food I give you."

"I'm always wary of your fabulous generosity. "

The king could hear the voice in the darkness, sweet as a hymn but he wanted to see. He crossed the cell gingerly and turned up the oil lamp hanging low from the ceiling. The lamp gave enough light to wash the dark cell in a lowlit gloom. It was then he saw her curled up in the corner with her arms around her knees, pulled up against her bosom and face buried in the white roughspun gown. When she felt the cell lit up she looked up. Her dark hair fell down her shoulders, tangled as if she had woken from a night's sleep. Her face was pale but the dark and cold had done nothing to fade the beauty. She stood up when she saw him there. Violet eyes sparkled in the orange glow of the lamp. Though garbed in peasant's clothes Ashara Dayne was more beautiful than any Queen or goddess adorned in all their royal finery. Even after a decade of life in darkness and chains, the beauty and grace of the woman is still apparent.

"You have not eaten for some days I suppose."

"Spare me your false concerns, my lord," the queen in the north seethed. "Do you think I fear death?

" On the contrary, yes, I think you do fear death, my lady," Rhaegar replied.

Ashara Dayne scoffed. "Bare your sword and put my head on the block. You'll see how afraid I am of death then."

"There is no need for that Lady Dayne," he told her. "I know you fear death by your own existence." He let the words hang in between them in silence. When she was quiet he continued. "I've seen men in the upper levels going mad, clawing their eyes out, begging to be given the mercy of death just for a glimpse of sun. Yet, you, staying in here where no one has ever been for centuries managed to desperately cling on to your life with every bit of your strength for god knows how long."

"You see my lady, such courage, resilience and desperation to live just makes a man wonder why is that?"

Ashara gave a defiant look at his face, so sudden and surprised.

Rhaegar smiled at her defiance. "In your place Lady Dayne anyone else would've sung sweetly for the Stranger to come and take her. You had nothing else in this world to live for. No husband, no brother, no crown but still you lived. That leaves us with . . . where is your son?"

Ashara gave a laugh, a wild, free laugh. "I did put Andrew in the river as I told you but not in the manner you thought. I put him on a boat and sent him away from your clutches," the woman growled at him. "I will fight your dragons tooth and nail before I'd let you harm my son."

"Sent him where?" Rhaegar asked. "Do you know that, my lady?"

Ashara looked down at the floor, trying to hide her shame. But Rhaegar saw her guilt in the light of the lamp. A mother's heart, aching for sending her child away to be on his own.

"Who would've thought of it, my lady," Rhaegar said to her, "that a five-year-old boy whose breath still smelled of his mother's milk would survive out in the wild and one day come so close to kill the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms?"

If the Queen in the north was not surprised before, she was certainly surprised now.

"That's right, my lady. He survived. I once said that you had left very little of yourself in your son but I was wrong. Like his mother your son won't just die." Rhaegar took Andrew Stark's letter and threw it at his lady mother's face. "There, the letter your son sent to me."

Ashara got the parchment in the air with her chained hands and read it. When she was done, she started laughing.

"Funny, isn't it?" Rhaegar asked.

"You are a cunning old bastard, Rhaegar, " Ashara said with a smirk, "but what you fail to understand is that your days are numbered, your grace. My son will finish what his father started."

"Would he though?" he asked her. "Over his own mother? Why do you think I kept you alive all these years? I knew this would happen the moment you fooled Viserys and got your son away. I knew that when it happens it'll not be me who would stop it, it will be you. You were the queen in the north and your son and your people would back down the moment I show them that I have you. Queen Ashara the Benevolent is still remembered in the north, my lady."

"Would you threaten my life, your grace?" Ashara Dayne asked. "Put a dagger at my neck and threaten to cut my throat? I'll do one up and cut my throat myself just to see you pay for your crimes."

"Who said anything of killing you," the king replied. "It will be such a shame to finish it off so easily. I have thousands of men here in King's Landing, all of them would do anything to have a little taste of you. Deny my offer, my lady and I'll feast you for the entire city and make your son watch it."

Rhaegar left the words hang in the dark as he put off the light from the lamp. He shut the door behind him and walked outside the corridor. Perhaps that is for the best, he thought as he left her back alone in her dark cell. Wake up the dragon and burn them all as his father used to say. Burn them all.


	59. Chapter 59

_**Asher**_

On the morning they reached the port city of White Harbor, Asher saw that a lot of things has changed in the place he has once called home. From the top of the ramparts and the city walls the grey direwolf of House Stark streamed atop the tall standards. The sight of the ice white banners flying proudly in place of the red and black of House Targaryen which had been there when he had left his home brought a thin smile to his lips.

"Steady lads," Bill Dustin shouted behind him. "We are approaching the port."

Asher looked at the gatehouse of the outer walls, draped with the white banners on either side. He noticed the harbor was busy acting as it was in the times of their true king. It had seemed as if it was a ruin when he had left his home years before, now people swarmed the docks and the pathways. Fishfoot square was teeming his sellers and buyers alike. The city seemed to have come to life, the people felt alive and there was hope and happiness in their faces which had not been then when he had left the north.

"What do you think, Asher?" Edgar asked. "Looks like all is fine out here."

"It must've been his work," Asher told him watching over the inner walls as they passed through it. "I told you so."

"That you did," said Bill Dustin clapping his back.

Asher looked to his left where the northern fleet had anchored in the deep waters near the inner wall. The galleys and dromonds were getting ready to set sail with men rushing over the decks with ropes and other things. Their ship docked in the inner harbor along with the other ones there.

He was happy that their ship brought them home in the morning tide. The gods had good to them, the sea calm during their journey and the winds good. Asher was glad that their sailing was peaceful all the way to home. He climbed down from the bow of the ship and took his swordbelt on the way down.

"What do we do now?" his uncle asked as he came down to the deck.

"We need to know what's happening before we can move further." Asher cinched the swordbelt around his waist. He looked up to White Harbor in the distance . "Lord Manderly might give us the answers we seek."

"Is it wise, Asher?" asked Reyna Longbraid, her throwing axe clutched in one hand. "Especially since we don't know what's been going on."

"Its perfectly fine, Asher said," as he knelt down to lace up his boots. He pointed to the direwolf banner flowing from the top of White Harbor above the Merman of House Manderly. "If Lord Manderly is hosting Targaryen swords in his hall, he wouldn't be doing it with the Stark banner raised upon his castle."

"Give me some time to round up the men," Bill Dustin said.

"No," Asher replied. "We cannot waste any time. Gather the men and bring forth to White Harbor at your pace. I'll ride to White Harbor to let Lord Manderly know that we are back."

"You cannot go out there alone," his uncle said.

"I'll come with you," Edgar said from beside him.

"Me too," Ethan Hunt voiced as well and the others let it know that they'll accompany him to White Harbor as well. Owen, Roger, Denys and Barton, the company he had had with him throughout his life, his friends.

"Very well then," Dustin said and went along to the men, shouting commands.

"Be safe, nephew," his uncle said.

Seven of them set out together on seven strong war horses. A small party travels more swiftly than a large one, and this way Asher could hear all he want from Manderly so that they could join Andrew soon enough without wasting any time.

They struck out south to White Harbor, the stronghold of House Manderly, upon crowded cobbled streets with little children and chickens running about everywhere. The news that had taken them across the Narrow Sea awaited them. Still Asher did not knew for certain what had happened in the north during his voyage. He hoped that Manderly would have some news for him that is the truth. They were lost in fog in their time at the sea, besieged by rumors, falsehoods, and traveler's tales. The tales varied from one man to another. Some said Andrew has raised an army of fallen heroes from the crypts of Winterfell to fight against King Rhaegar. Other claimed that Andrew turns himself into a giant wolf to battle and slay dragons. The fables had a sweet taste to it but not the truth and all Asher want is the truth.

Though he knew nothing for a certainity, Asher knew that something is happening. War is happening, thought Asher, and this time the Seven Kingdoms will not be spared. Doom and death are coming, there was truth in that. If the direwolf banner flows in the north it meant that the dragon in the north is dead and Rhaegar Targaryen will not let it go unanswered. And Andrew, the boy he had known in the childhood, the boy he had called a friend, he'll not stop with Winterfell when Rhaegar lives. Asher still remembered the boys they had been at Braavos. They both learned life in the hard way, Andrew more than him. At least he joined with his uncle soon enough, he had a family waiting for him back at Ironrath, while he had no one to go back to.

They crossed the harbor shortly and made for the castle nearby. It was a short ride but it felt as if it was as long as it could be. He brought the men back here with a promise and he wished he was right in time for it. He knew that Andrew would have marched his army from Winterfell by now but he couldn't have gone far. There were talks of war in the air but there was no claims of fighting. Atleast, not for now. He hoped to join the fight as soon as he can. Asher wondered what his father would think of him if he saw him now. Will he approve this part of it atleast.

Asher missed his family. He missed his friend. He has returned home after many years yet it was not enough to go and see his family. He wished to see them. He wished to see his father's talks, strong and unyielding. He wished to see his mother laugh. He wished to spar with Rodrik, to listen to Mira's complaining, to meet the little twins and little Ryon. But it was not the right time now. The commander of the Company of the Rose could not leave his men to fight his battles while he goes to see his family. He had chosen this path just like he had chosen years before, but unlike then, now he had an army behind him, following him. Perhaps he would see his father and Rodrik in Andrew's host. They would've marched with him by now.

"If King Stark has raised his banners wouldn't the Manderlys be gone with him?" Ethan Hunt asked.

"See, that's where you are making the mistake," Roger grimaced. "He cannot ride with the army even if he wanted to. Lord Manderly is called Lord Too-Fat-To-Sit-a-Horse for a reason."

His company laughed at that and even Asher let a chuckle out.

"Now that's a bit harsh, Roger," Denys Snow said, smiling at the jape. "Lord Wyman may be fat but his loyalty could never be questioned. Besides someone need to keep watch over the city of the north and Lord Wyman has done a pretty good job at it."

That Asher could agree. Lord Wyman has not been sitting idle certainly. The guards were poured in the walls and the harbor.

"Perhaps he will provide a feast for us too," Roger said again. "That way he could feast more on our name."

"You talk as if you handle your horse better than everyone else, Roger," Owen said.

"Oh, but I can handle everything better than you do," Roger replied.

"Race you to the gates of White Harbor then?" Owen challenged.

"Agreed," Roger said. "The victor claims all the food Manderly gives us." He wheeled his big chestnut desterier around and put his heels into him, and the race was on, through the cobbled lanes of the city through to the castle, as chickens and people alike scrambled out of their path. Asher was three horse lengths behind by the time he got his stallion up to a gallop, but had closed to one halfway up a slope. Roger and Owen were side-by-side as they thundered towards the gatehouse and Asher crossed Denys and Barton and Ethan who followed them closely behind, but five yards from the gates when Asher was about to cross both of them to win the race, Edgar Dustin came flying from the cloud of dust behind them to rush past all of them on his black palfrey.

"Damn, I'm good," Dustin said, laughing, with only the gates before him. "Looks like I just earned all your dinner."

"Piss off, Edgar," Roger announced. "You know the drill. No one's taking anyone's food."

"Like as not," Edgar said, "the look on your face when you lose is all the prize I need."

"I'm pretty much sure its not as sour as Barton's face."

His friends lapsed into silence when they were at the journey's end. White Harbor loomed up before them in the morning sun, its white washed walls shining against the deep blue of the sea around it. From the square towers at the castle's corners flew the banners of House Manderly; the white merman with dark green hair, beard and tail, carrying a black trident, over a blue-green field. The direwolf of House Stark streamed atop the great central keep, grey and white, fierce.

"Speak up," the man in the gatehouse shouted. "Who are you and what is your business here?"

Asher led his horse forward and reigned up before his friends. "Asher Forrester, son of Lord Gregor Forrester," he said. "I'm here with the Company of the Rose to meet with Lord Wyman."

"The Company of the Rose?" the guard asked, doubtful.

"We heard of Andrew Stark and have come to join our strength to his."

"You claim to know about the King?" the man asked.

"Aye, we do." Asher replied.

The man disappeared from the gatehouse for a moment. He heard the rumbling of the doors opening after a pause and the gates of White Harbor opened before them. Asher entered through the gate, his friends following him closely.

"Take the horses to bridle and water them," the man announced and half a dozen stable boys came forth to lead their horses to the stables.

The knight wore silver armor, his greaves and gauntlet inlaid with niello to suggest flowing fronds of seaweed. The helm beneath his arm was the head of the merling king, with a crown of mother-of-pearl and a jutting beard of jet and jade. His own beard was as grey as the winter sea.

"I'm Ser Marlon Manderly." He was a head taller than Asher and three stones heavier, with slate-grey eyes and a haughty way of speaking. "I have the honor to be Lord Wyman's cousin and commander of his garrison. I will take you to his lordship. Follow me."

Asher nodded at his friends and followed Ser Marlon into the castle.

"Has the fighting started already?" he asked as they climbed up the stairs to the Great Hall.

The knight chuckled. "You should count yourselves lucky for you have not missed the action," he said. "His Grace is leading the host south from Winterfell."

"Lord Wyman?"

"King Andrew has asked his lordship to take care of the fleet," Ser Marlon said. "Most of the ships are ready to set sail but some of them has some repairs to be done. Ser Wendel is leading the Manderly knights in the King's host."

Lord Manderly's household guard wore cloaks of blue-green wool and carried silver tridents in place of common spears. They stood firmly on either side of the corridor. They walked past the faded banners, broken shields, and rusted swords of a hundred ancient victories, and a score of wooden figures, cracked and worm-riddled, that could only have adorned the prows of ships.

Two marble mermen flanked his lordship's court, Fishfoot's smaller cousins. As the guards threw open the doors, a herald slammed the butt of his staff against an old plank floor. "My lord, visitors," he called in a ringing voice.

As many times as he had visited White Harbor, Asher had never set foot inside the New Castle, much less the Merman's Court. Its walls and floor and ceiling were made of wooden planks notched cunningly together and decorated with all the creatures of the sea. As they approached the dais, Asher trod on painted crabs and clams and starfish, half-hidden amongst twisting black fronds of seaweed and the bones of drowned sailors. On the walls to either side, pale sharks prowled painted blue-green depths, whilst eels and octopods slithered amongst rocks and sunken ships. Shoals of herring and great codfish swam between the tall arched windows. Higher up, near where the old fishing nets drooped down from the rafters, the surface of the sea had been depicted. To his right a war galley stroked serene against the rising sun; to his left, a battered old cog raced before a storm, her sails in rags. Behind the dais a kraken and grey leviathan were locked in battle beneath the painted waves.

They found Wyman Manderly holding court with his builders and shipwrights. All of them either had long grey beards or looked too young to shave. There were septons as well, and holy sisters in white robes and grey.

He could find the welcome in the pale blue eyes of Wyman Manderly. His lordship's cushioned throne was wide enough to accommodate three men of common girth, yet Manderly threatened to overflow it. His lordship sagged into his seat, his shoulders slumped, his legs splayed, his hands resting on the arms of his throne as if the weight of them were too much to bear.

Left of the high seat stood a maester nigh as fat as the lord he served, a rosy-cheeked man with thick lips and a head of golden curls. Ser Marlon claimed the place of honor at Lord Wyman's right hand. On a cushioned stool at his feet perched a large man who looked to be Lord Wyman's son. Beside him stood a plump, handsome woman in a pink dress. Behind Lord Wyman stood two younger women, sisters by the look of them. The elder wore her brown hair bound in a long braid. The younger, no more than fifteen, had an even longer braid, dyed a garish green.

"Lord Asher," The maester was the first to speak. "You stand before Wyman Manderly, Lord of White Harbor and Warden of the White Knife, Shield of the Faith, Defender of the Dispossessed, Lord Marshal of the Mander, a Knight of the Order of the Green Hand," he said.

"Asher Forrester," Wyman Manderly aknowledged. "You're Gregor's son, aren't you?"

"I am, my lord," Asher replied. "Now I have come to as the Lord Commander of the Company of the Rose."

"I saw your father at Winterfell," Lord Wyman said. "He is marching with his grace. He is a good friend of mine."

"He spoke of you as well, my lord."

"Why have you come to my castle?" Lord Wyman asked.

"We have come to fight for the Starks once again."

"Then you ought to be going south," Wylis Manderly said. "His grace is going for Moat Cailin."

The Moat. That is good news. If they made enough pace in their journey they would make it to the Moat before Andrew's bigger host arrives.

"Thank you, my lord," Asher said. "If that's where the king is, we'll be leaving..."

"Nonsense," The Lord of White Harbor pushed himself to his feet. The effort brought a red flush to his neck. "I'm not sending any man to fight for His Grace without proper food. You and your friends can join us in my table."

By midday, when the others made it to the castle, Lord Manderly hosted him and the high officers of his company in his own table. He was happy to see old Bill Dustin and shared goblets of wine with him. Manderly provided them lamprey pies, crab cakes and varieties of other sea foods.

Halfway into the meal, Ethan Hunt moved closer to his ear. "Why do they have septons and a sept here?" he asked. "I never knew anyone from the north followed the Seven."

"That's because we're from the south," piped a girl's voice, thin and high before Asher could answer him.

It belonged to the half-grown child with the blond eyebrows and the long green braid who had stood behind Lord Wyman at the court.

She continued. "A thousand years before the Conquest, a promise was made, and oaths were sworn in the Wolf's Den before the old gods and the new. When we were sore beset and friendless, hounded from our homes and in peril of our lives, the wolves took us in and nourished us and protected us against our enemies. The city is built upon the land they gave us. In return we swore that we should always be their men. Stark men!

"That's my youngest granddaughter Wylla," Lord Wyman announced with a smile.

"The girl has a sharp ear," laughed Bill Dustin.

"And a sharp mouth as well," her grandfather added.

By the time the plesantries and the time to rest were done the sun was almost down. They set forth from White Harbor at dusk with Lord Manderly wishing them luck and his granddaughter Wylla wishing them future victories. Asher looked down upon his men riding in long columns of four from a high mound. He could not wait to fight as he had promised to them, moreover, he could not wait to see his friend again.


	60. Chapter 60

_**Jaehaerys**_

The courtyard had been arranged for the ceremony to take place. Lord Commander Mormont was passing new recruits, six of them, along with Jaehaerys and Gwayne. Two long wooden tables were arranged neatly before the raised wooden platform where he took his seat with his soon to be brothers.

The high officers took their place in the raised platform; Lord Commander Mormont stood first in a blank wool doublet. Maester Aemon stood on his right side, fat Samwell Tarly by his side, Ser Alliser cold-eyed and grim took the left. Beside them were the senior members of the three orders: red-faced Bowen Marsh the Lord Steward, First Builder Othell Yarwyck, and Ser Jaremy Rykker, who commanded the rangers in the absence of Benjen Stark.

His uncle had left for a ranging with his rangers as soon as he came back from Winterfell and he has not returned since. None of the men he took with him has made it back to the Wall. Benjen Stark's disappearance was making everyone restless that Jaehaerys saw the truth of it in the faces of the black brothers. He has been away for too long, and there's been no words on him or the men he went in searching for. For days Jaehaerys waited for the return of his uncle, but days turned to weeks still Benjen Stark was nowhere to be found. He must feel nothing for the man, he knew that. Benjen Stark has been a complete stranger in all his life. Even when Jaehaerys was sent to the Wall, Benjen rode forth to Winterfell in a hurry to meet his long lost nephew while not even sparing a look at him. But somewhere in his heart, Jae couldn't help but to hope for his safe return. Most of the brothers of Night's Watch pretty much believed Benjen Stark to be dead but not Jaehaerys.

Mormont stood before them on the platform, the Wall sparkling behind him. "You came to us outlaws," he began, "poachers, rapers, debtors, killers, and thieves. You came to us children. You came to us alone, in chains, with neither friends nor honor. You came to us rich, and you came to us poor. Some of you bear the names of proud houses. Others have only bastards' names, or no names at all. It makes no matter. All that is past now. On the Wall, we are all one house.

"At evenfall, as the sun sets and we face the gathering night, you shall take your vows. From that moment, you will be a Sworn Brother of the Night's Watch. Your crimes will be washed away, your debts forgiven. So too you must wash away your former loyalties, put aside your grudges, forget old wrongs and old loves alike. Here you begin anew.

"A man of the Night's Watch lives his life for the realm. Not for a king, nor a lord, nor the honor of this house or that house, neither for gold nor glory nor a woman's love, but for the realm, and all the people in it. A man of the Night's Watch takes no wife and fathers no sons. Our wife is duty. Our mistress is honor. And you are the only sons we shall ever know.

"You have learned the words of the vow. Think carefully before you say them, for once you have taken the black, there is no turning back. The penalty for desertion is death." The Old Bear paused for a moment before he said, "Are there any among you who wish to leave our company? If so, go now, and no one shall think the less of you."

No one moved. For a moment, Jaehaerys wanted to leave, leave and go be with his family. He felt the blind white eyes of Aemon on him and looked at the old man. Despite of all the others around him, Aemon's milky eyes were fixed on him. He looked back at the old man and stayed in his seat unmoved.

"Well and good," said Mormont. "You may take your vows here at evenfall, before Septon Celladar and the first of your order. Do any of you keep to the old gods?"

Jaehaerys stood. "I do, my lord. I may have born in the south but I grew up in the north."

"Very well then," Mormont said. "Castle Black has no need of a godswood. Beyond the Wall the haunted forest stands as it stood in the Dawn Age, long before the Andals brought the Seven across the narrow sea. You will find a grove of weirwoods half a league from this spot, and mayhap the gods you seek as well."

"My lord." Gwayne voiced beside him. "I wish to accompany the prince as well, to say my vows before the Hear tree."

"Do you follow the old gods as well, ser?" Mormont asked.

"No, my lord," Gwayne replied. "But I do follow the prince in whatever he does."

"As you wish then," Mormont said. Gwayne took his seat again, as did Jaehaerys. "We have placed each of you in an order, as befits our need and your own strengths and skills." Bowen Marsh stepped forward and handed him a paper. The Lord Commander unrolled it and began to read. "Lio, to the builders," he began. Lio gave a stiff nod of approval. "Quid, to the rangers. Jos, to the builders. Geren, to the rangers." Geren looked over at Jaehaerys and gave a smile which Jae returned. "Gwayne, to the rangers." Gwayne looked at him and gave a nod, and Jaehaerys waited for his chance. "Orten, to the rangers. Kurt, to the rangers. Jaehaerys, to the stewards."

The stewards? For a moment Jaehaerys could not believe what he had heard. Mormont must have read it wrong. He started to rise, to open his mouth, to tell them there had been a mistake . . . and then he saw Ser Alliser studying him, eyes shiny as two flakes of obsidian, and he knew. The whole thing had his name written onto it.

The Old Bear rolled up the paper. "Your firsts will instruct you in your duties. May all the gods preserve you, brothers." The Lord Commander favored them with a half bow, and took his leave. Ser Alliser went with him, a thin smile on his face. Jae had never seen the master-at-arms look quite so happy. He should be happy now that he has condemned him to the life of a servant. And he managed to get him away from Gwayne.

"Rangers with me," Ser Jaremy Rykker called when they were gone. Gwayne was staring at Jae as he got slowly to his feet. Quid, Geren, Kurt and Orten fell in beside him, and they followed Ser Jaremy from the sept.

"Builders," announced lantern-jawed Othell Yarwyck. Lio and Jos trailed out after him.

Jae looked around him in sick disbelief. Maester Aemon's blind eyes were raised toward the sun he could not see. Only he remained on the benches in the yard; him along with the fat boy Samwell and the blind maester.

Lord Steward Bowen Marsh rubbed his plump hands together. "Lord Commander Mormont has requested you for his personal steward, Jaehaerys. You'll sleep in a cell beneath his chambers, in the Lord Commander's tower."

And what will my duties be? Jae might've asked, but he will not give that satisfaction to Ser Alliser. He was a man of the Night's Watch now and he would not cry and weep like a girl about the duties that came with it.

They dismissed from the yard in silence. Outside, Jae looked up at the Wall shining in the sun, the melting ice creeping down its side in a hundred thin fingers. Jae's rage was such that he would have smashed it all in an instant, and the world be damned.

"Jaehaerys," Samwell Tarly said excitedly, following him. "Wait. Don't you see what they're doing?"

Jae turned on him, calmly. "I see Ser Alliser's bloody hand, that's all I see. He wanted to shame me, and he has."

"There is no shame in being a steward," Sam said.

"Do you think I want to spend the rest of my life washing an old man's smallclothes?"

"The old man is Lord Commander of the Night's Watch," Sam reminded him. "You'll be with him day and night. Yes, you'll pour his wine and see that his bed linen is fresh, but you'll also take his letters, attend him at meetings, squire for him in battle. You'll be as close to him as his shadow. You'll know everything, be a part of everything . . . and the Lord Steward said Mormont asked for you himself!

"When I was little, my father used to insist that I attend him in the audience chamber whenever he held court. When he rode to Highgarden to bend his knee to Lord Tyrell, he made me come. Later, though, he started to take Dickon and leave me at home, and he no longer cared whether I sat through his audiences, so long as Dickon was there. He wanted his heir at his side, don't you see? To watch and listen and learn from all he did. I'll wager that's why Lord Mormont requested you, Jae. What else could it be? He wants to groom you for command!"

Jaehaerys was taken aback. It was true, his father had often made Aegon part of his councils back at the Red Keep. Could Sam be right? Perhaps this is not a condemning after all.

"None of us are here for asking," Sam reminded him.

Jae let out a deep sigh. "You have the right of it. I was acting the boy like I was at Winterfell."

"Then you'll stay and say your words?"

"Of course, brother." He made himself smile.

They set out late that afternoon. The Wall had no gates as such, neither here at Castle Black nor anywhere along its three hundred miles. They led their horses down a narrow tunnel cut through the ice, cold dark walls pressing in around them as the passage twisted and turned. Three times their way was blocked by iron bars, and they had to stop while Bowen Marsh drew out his keys and unlocked the massive chains that secured them. Jae could sense the vast weight pressing down on him as he waited behind the Lord Steward. The air was colder than a tomb, and more still. He felt a strange relief when they reemerged into the afternoon light on the north side of the Wall.

Gwayne blinked at the sudden glare and looked around carefully. "What about the Wildlings?"

"They'd never dare come this close." the ranger accompanying them said. When Bowen Marsh and their ranger escort had mounted, they set off at once.

Once they had entered the forest, they were in a different world. Jae had often hunted with Gwayne and his men in the wolfswood. He knew the wolfswood around Winterfell as well as any man from the north and the Kingswood in King's Landing as well. The haunted forest was much the same, and yet the feel of it was very different.

Perhaps it was all in the knowing. They had ridden past the end of the world; somehow that changed everything. Every shadow seemed darker, every sound more ominous. The trees pressed close and shut out the light of the setting sun. A thin crust of snow cracked beneath the hooves of their horses, with a sound like breaking bones. When the wind set the leaves to rustling, it was like a chilly finger tracing a path up his spine. The Wall was at their backs, and only the gods knew what lay ahead.

The sun was sinking below the trees when they reached their destination, a small clearing in the deep of the wood where nine weirwoods grew in a rough circle. Jae drew in a breath, and he even saw Gwayne staring. Even in the wolfswood, you never found more than two or three of the white trees growing together; a grove of nine was unheard of. The forest floor was carpeted with fallen leaves, bloodred on top, black rot beneath. The wide smooth trunks were bone pale, and nine faces stared inward. The dried sap that crusted in the eyes was red and hard as ruby. Bowen Marsh commanded them to leave their horses outside the circle. "This is a sacred place, we will not defile it."

When they entered the grove, Gwayne turned slowly looking at each face in turn. No two were quite alike. "This is it, my prince," he said.

"I know." Jae knelt, and Gwayne knelt beside him.

They said the words together, as the last light faded in the west and grey day became black night.

"Hear my words, and bear witness to my vow," they recited, their voices filling the twilit grove. "Night gathers, and now my watch begins. It shall not end until my death. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall wear no crowns and win no glory. I shall live and die at my post. I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men. I pledge my life and honor to the Night's Watch, for this night and all the nights to come."

The woods fell silent. "You knelt as boys," Bowen Marsh intoned solemnly. "Rise now as men of the Night's Watch."

Jae and Gwayne stood up. He smiled at Gwayne and embraced him tightly.

The rangers gathered round to offer smiles and congratulations, all but the gnarled old forester Dywen. "Best we be starting back, m'lord," he said to Bowen Marsh. "Dark's falling, and there's something in the smell o' the night that I mislike."

They took a different route through the trees on their way back. It is then they came across the black bundles half frozen and abandoned amidst the forest.

* * *

 _ **A/N:**_ _ **So Jaehaerys' storyline will mostly follow the canon storyline of Jon, tbh. It will mostly follow the canon storyline but there will me some changes along the way. I hope you guys enjoy it. Let me know what you thought about it in the reviews.**_


	61. Chapter 61

_**Andrew**_

They had stayed in a high ground dry enough for a camp. It was too far to make out the outriders clearly, but even through the drifting fog he could see their white banners, with the direwolf of Stark, grey upon its icy field.

"Empty, your grace," said the knight with the Merman of House Manderly stitched upon his doublet. "The castle seems to be deserted."

Andrew nodded. "Let's get the castle back to life then." He turned back to look at the Greatjon. "Get the men ready to move."

Greatjon Umber left, bowing. He mounted his own white stallion when it was brought to him and behind him the lords bannermen fell in. Ghost bounded past before him crossing the muddy path with the ease of a direwolf.

The ground under their horses' hooves was soft and wet. It fell away slowly beneath them as they rode past bushels of reeds, patches of mud and sand, and here and there a small pond filled with mud brown water. He might want to place most of the wagons and horses around here. Even a fortress as big as Moat Cailin would not be able to hold all his men and supplies inside.

"Order the men to camp here with the supplies," Andrew told to Lord Beric Dondarrion. "Lord Halys, you have the command of our supply line."

"Aye, Your Grace," Lord Hornwood said. He wheeled his mount and rode towards the supply line trailing them with all the wagons heavy-laden with hardbread and salt beef pulled by horses.

Just beyond, through the mists, he glimpsed the walls and towers of Moat Cailin . . . or what remained of them. Immense blocks of black basalt, each as large as a crofter's cottage, lay scattered and tumbled like a child's wooden blocks, half-sunk in the soft boggy soil. Nothing else remained of a curtain wall that had once stood as high as Winterfell's. The wooden keep was gone entirely, burnt away in dragonflames, with not so much as a timber to mark where it had stood. All that was left of the great stronghold of the First Men were three towers . . . there had been five of them when his father ruled the north and in the tales of Old Nan it had twenty. Rhaegar Targaryen had left the stronghold to ruin and he could not fault him, the north needs no protection from the south when your son rules in in your stead. Moat Cailin was useless to him.

The Gatehouse Tower looked sound enough, and even boasted a few feet of standing wall to either side of it. The Drunkard's Tower, off in the bog where the south and west walls had once met, leaned like a man about to spew a bellyful of wine into the gutter. And the tall, slender Children's Tower, where legend said the children of the forest had once called upon their nameless gods to send the hammer of the waters, had lost half its crown. It looked as if some great beast had taken a bite out of the crenellations along the tower top, and spit the rubble across the bog. All three towers were green with moss. A tree was growing out between the stones on the north side of the Gatehouse Tower, its gnarled limbs festooned with ropy white blankets of ghostskin.

It looked no more than a ruin now. The last he had seen Moat Cailin, it had hundreds of men holding the castle in his father's name and the banners of House Stark flew from all the five towers. Even in such state Andrew knew that the ruin was more formidable than it seemed. The three surviving towers commanded a causeway from all sides, and any enemy must pass between them. The bogs surrounding the castle were impenetrable, full of quicksands and suckholes and teeming with snakes. To assault any of the towers, an army would need to wade through waist-deep black muck, cross a moat full of lizard-lions, and scale walls slimy with moss, all the while exposing themselves to fire from archers in the other towers. Even an assassin like him won't dare to face all that. And when night falls, there are said to be ghosts, cold vengeful spirits of the north who hunger for southron blood.

He should take command of one of the towers while the others should be given to his lords. Andrew looked at the three towers once again and saw that the Gatehouse Tower was in the best place to oversee everything happening around him. He moved his horse slowly across the green-and-black fields of mud to the yard.

"Halt," Andrew told the men as they found a solid ground beneath them. "Get the men settled in, the fires laid and the horses tended. Lord Umber take command of the Children's tower. Lord Rickard you have the Drunkard Tower." When dozens of orders sounded behind him, Andrew made for the Gatehouse Tower with his cousin, Lord Beric and his men.

Ghost had already taken his place in a drafty hall with a black and cold hearth. "Looks like we both picked the same place, eh?" Andrew smiled and scratched him under his jaw.

When dusk finally came over them and a fire was burning in the black hearth of his hall the lords came to him to discuss the future plans. His men had wrestled in a massive basalt slab for the table and Andrew took his seat at the head of it, a pile of maps and papers in front of him and the lords of the north all around him.

"Less than a fortnight past, the Tyrell army set forth from Highgarden," Andrew told them. "Mace Tyrell's son Garlan Tyrell leads them from the van. Tyrell has Tarly and Fossoway in his host and the others are rallying to him on the way. The Targaryen dragons have not yet taken flight and the fleet is anchored at Dragonstone. Doran Martell has called his spears but at the time he is not making any move. Sooner or later we will come to grips with Tyrell and possibly the other two dragons."

"What about the Stormlands and the Vale?" Ser Wendel asked.

"I've received a raven from Lord Arryn," Andrew told him. "The Knights of the Vale will come to our help. Lord Jon is marching them down the mountain road as we speak now. The means Lord Hoster Tully will join us as well."

"Should we make our stand here, my lord?" Rickard Ryswell asked. "You are strongly placed here. The old Kings in the North could stand at Moat Cailin and throw back hosts ten times the size of their own."

"Yes, that is if the dragons come too far up north," Andrew said. "But there is little chance for that."

"Rhaegar Targaryen is too smart for that," Roose Bolton agreed. "He would never have forgotten what your father served him when he tried to invade the north once."

"Aye," Andrew said, "and the dragon will want vengeance once he knows that Lords Arryn and Tully joined us. He will turn towards our allies and burn them as he goes." He took the carved wooden block in the likeness of the Tyrell rose and positioned it near the borders of riverlands on the map before him, a ragged piece of old leather covered with lines of faded paint. "The Riverlands share borders with the Reach and the Stormlands. With the situation in the Stormlands unknown we cannot let them surrounded by enemies from either side. If we did the Targaryens will move quickly through the riverlands, castle by castle, burning them as they go. We would lose an entire army in no time."

"We should take the battle to Tyrell and sent him back running," the Greatjon said in a bass rumble. "The dragons can only burn cities and castles, you can't hold anything with dragons. Without Tyrell in the way we can march forth straight to the dragon's lair."

"We can't rush forth to meet the Tyrell bulk head on," Galbart Glover said. "Even with the strength of Jon Arryn and Hoster Tully with us, we cannot match it up with the power of Highgarden and the two dragons altogether."

"That is without taking the crownlands and Connington into account," Roose Bolton said. "The Lannisters can take us in the rear as well if we ventured too far into the south. Lord Tywin is a cunning man. He won't declare for us like Jon Arryn."

A chorus of consternation filled the hall, all of the lords telling their views. Andrew raised a hand and that stopped them.

"This is what we'll do," Andrew told them and looked over at the map. "We leave a good enough force here to hold Moat Cailin, archers mostly, and the rest of the army will march with me down the causeway," he said. "Lord Howland," Andrew looked to his father's old friend near him, "if the dragons come up the Neck, you and your crannogmen will bleed them every step of the way. You held the Moat for my father now I ask you to do the same for me. Do not let anyone inside our lands."

Howland Reed bowed his head in respect. "I will not, Your Grace," he said.

Andrew continued when Lord Reed was done. "Once we're below the Neck, we will continue down the kingsroad and hold here at the Crossroads inn." He pointed. "Here we wait for Lord Jon and the Knights of the Vale to join us from the mountain road. Then together we cross the Trident at this ford and make for Riverrun to join our strength with Lord Hoster's men. Once we are at Riverrun we wait for the word on Lord Baratheon and then we make the final plans for the war." Andrew sat back, watching the map and the blocks on it. He was pleased with himself. The quick march had given him the time to meet up with his allies and gain some good ground before the Targaryens arrive. If things go by plan he might trap the whole Targaryen army right in the riverlands from north, south, east and west and destroy them in one single stroke. Then Rhaegar will be left all alone in King's Landing with no armies to defend him or his city.

"Your Grace, autumn is almost upon us," William Dustin expressed his concerns. "The Trident will soon be flooded which will make it hard for us to cross the river."

"That may be so," Andrew told him, "but it is our only way to Riverrun. Unless," he looked over at the map and found the Twins up far north in the Green Fork marked by the twin towers in blue and grey, "we cross here at the Twins." Andrew thought back at his past lessons with Maester Walys. He had known the castle and the lord who held it. Was it Darry or Drey or Grey . . . ? Frey, it was Frey. He remembered now. House Frey held the Twins at the Crossing, and their coat of arms is the two blue towers, united by a bridge, on a silver-grey field. Andrew had crossed the Twins with his father once when they went south.

"Walder Frey is a treacherous bastard," the Greatjon said. "You must not treat with him, Your Grace."

"He is Lord Hoster's bannerman is he not?" Andrew asked.

"Aye," Lord Beric agreed, "but he is a cold man, filled with low cunning. Kings and overlords mean little enough to him. He will leech you for favours to grant you safe passage." He pressed the word safe enough that Andrew understood what he meant.

It would be very different from the last time he crossed the Twins with his father, he thought. Without his father, Walder Frey would not be so welcoming to him it seemed. Andrew scratched his beard and looked over at the map once again. Both the plans had their own virtues. Making it to the Crossroads inn will gain him grounds north of the Trident and a commanding position to control the river. But it will give time to the Targaryens and the Tyrells to muster up with their forces. Crossing through the Twins makes the journey and the crossing swift and easier but it will let any loyalists to take control of the Trident and cut off their armies from the Vale.

"From the way I see it, we have only two options," Andrew told them. "Both plans have virtues . . . If we make for the Crossroads inn, we'll join along with the Knights of the Vale and we can hold the Trident. If we crossed from the Twins it'll make our journey to Riverrun considerably quick and our crossing much safer without fearing the autumn floods. I Intend to . . . " He was saying and the call came drifting through the evening air. Andrew pushed himself from his seat, his hand reaching for Frost by force of habit as his men began to stir. Even Ghost was up and bounding for the door once he heard the horn. The horn came from the north, he thought then, not from the south. Who is coming for him from the north?

The long low note lingered at the edge of hearing. Outside the men threw their tankards and horns aside and reached for spears and swordbelts, moving from the peat fires at once. As the sound of the horn faded, even the wind ceased to blow. A horse whickered and was hushed by its rider. For a heartbeat it seemed as if the whole world was holding its breath.

When the silence had stretched unbearably long and the men knew at last that the horn would not wind again, they grinned at one another sheepishly, as if to deny that they had been anxious that it was not the warhorn of a foe.

A Hornwood rider rode down the log-and-plank road that had been laid across the green-and-black fields of mud to the yard below him. "Riders in the south, my lord," he shouted. "They say that they'll only talk to you."

"How many of them?"

"Five of them turned up at our camp," the man said. "There are more camped a short way away northeast from our position."

"Do they bear any standards?" Andrew asked.

"Yes, Your Grace," the Hornwood rider agreed. "Their banners sport your mother's rose."

My mother's rose. He wondered whom they could be. The Company of the Rose once had the violet rose his mother had loved very much in their banners but what's left of the company was long gone from the north as far as he knew. If they were even around somewhere no one knew where they were or what they were doing.

"Send them in, then," Andrew told him, "and keep watch on that camp."

"Aye, Your Grace." He wheeled his horse around and left.

Could it really be them? Or is it another one of Rhaegar's treacherous plots? He would find it soon enough, he thought. He walked back to the hall with Ghost, his lords bannermen all following him. When he took his seat the direwolf laid by his side and rubbed his head against his leg.

The hall was restless as they waited for the strangers to finally arrive. When they finally came, Andrew saw that the Old Nan's myth about Moat Cailin came true only that the ghost he saw that night was not of the old northmen who died here but of a boy from his childhood in Braavos.

"Asher," it was not him who said the words but Lord Gregor Forrester. "What are you doing here?"

Asher Forrester gave a stiff nod to his father. "Father," he said and turned to Andrew. His friend went down to one knee and the men accompanying him did likewise. "I've brought the Company of Rose for his grace and some old friends as well."

"Edgar," Lord Dustin said and rushed to a boy behind Asher.

"Bill Fucking Dustin," the Greatjon announced with a laugh that filled the hall, "its so good to see that sour old face of yours once again before you die."

"I'm not biting the dust before you do, Umber," the old man said with a matching laugh and hugged the Greatjon.

Before him Asher was still on one knee. Andrew was too observed with seeing his old friend and everything that was happening around that he forgot him once again. "Get up," he said gently.

"My men are yours to command, Your Grace," Asher said, "so is my sword. Forgive me for my informalities, but you do look like you father."

"You know King Andrew?" Lord Gregor asked his son.

"We know each other, my lord," Andrew told him. "It seems so long now but I'm happy to see you and your men. Come join us."

"Do you require any refreshments?" Andrew asked them as they took their seats.

"We do, my lord," Asher said. "We've been riding hard for days."

Andrew pushed the flagon of wine on the table to their side. The men with his friend looked well worn out tired and could do with some good sleep.

"You're coming from White Harbor, I believe?" Andrew asked.

"Aye, Your Grace," Asher replied. "Lord Wyman sent us here."

"And I suppose you know of the fight." It was more of a statement than a question.

"Yes, sire."

Andrew unrolled the map again and frowned at it. He pondered where the hammer would fall. Rhaegar will not wait for him to move now that he's lost a dragon and a son. The Riverlands and the Vale siding with him will only enrage him. The dragon will not take the news of betrayal lightly. The Riverlands will be the first to burn, he knew. He would not want Andrew to join with allies. The Eyrie and Winterfell sat well away from the men's grasp but even they were not so far away from a dragon's grasp.

"We cannot let the river get in between us and our allies," Andrew said once they were all settled.

"What about Jon Arryn?" Rickard Karstark asked. "Arryn will come past the crossroads. He can hold the ford."

"Lord Arryn will not make it in time," Andrew said. "The army of the crownlands is much closer than they are. Should Rhaegar's men take the river while we swing past through the Twins and make it to Riverrun it will put a river in between us and the knights of the Vale. Should we risk moving for the ford we would leave Riverrun alone for the Reach and Connington. Either way we risk losing an army and splitting our army will leave us vulnerable."

"What about Harrenhal?" his cousin asked.

"Harrenhal is close to the ford," Lord Beric replied. "But with Oswell Whent in Kingsguard you can't be sure of their allegiance."

"Either way Harrenhal lacks the strength to hold the rivers," Robett Glover said.

"I can win it for you," a familiar voice broke in.

Andrew looked at Asher. His friend stood up. "I have some eight thousand strong in my company," he said. "I can hold the river until Lord Arryn arrives from the East."

That would work. If Asher could hold the ford until the Knights of the Vale arrive from the mountain road, he could move to Riverrun through the Twins without splitting his army. There will not be a barrier between them should any of them find the need for help.

"As you wish then," Andrew said. "Get your men ready to march once they get enough rest. Hold the crossroads and let no one from the crownlands into our domains."

"I will not fail you, Your Grace," his friend said.

Andrew smiled sadly at him. He wished for more time to spend with the friend he had once lost as a boy but no matter what his wish was he could not at least until this war was over.

"Ron," Andrew called the boy Maester Walys had given him to take care of the ravens. "Send a raven to Lord Arryn telling him of our new position."

When the ravens were sent and all the plans were done in the night and all the waiting and rest had been taken in the following days, Andrew marched his army down the neck. At the Kingsroad his host split and he saw his friend getting away from him once again. He turned back to his course and led his army southwest along the Green Fork of the Trident towards the Twins.


	62. Chapter 62

_**Robert**_

The trumpets made a brazen blare, and cut the still blue air of dusk. Gendry was on his feet at once, scrambling for his hammer and dagger.

The boy has good instincts. Maybe he has not made a mistake by bringing him to war like he thought he was. His wife would tell him otherwise. The way she objected to his intent, he had thought that she was sure that he was taking the boy away from her to kill him. Even the boy's own wife hadn't objected as much. Jon's daughter sent Gendry away with a long hug and a longer kiss. "Enemies in cover don't blow trumpets to herald their arrival," Robert told him. "You don't need your weapon now. That'll be our allies"

The riders were dismounting when he emerged from his tent; half a dozen knights, and twoscore mounted archers and men-at-arms. "Lord Robert," said a tall man clad in a blue mailcoat and a fox-fur cloak. "Hope we are not so late."

"Not at all," Robert said. Lord Selwyn Tarth climbed down his horse and took off his helm. The tangled yellow thicket atop his head was matted down by the helm he was removing. His cheeks were smooth and clear, clean shaven like Robert had once been long before when Ned was still alive. Below the long, yellow eyebrows a pair of lively blue eyes as clear as sapphires watched the camp surrounding him closely. "Did you have any trouble on your way?"

"Nothing but the usual." For a man who looked so tall and hard, Selwyn Tarth sounded oddly gentle. Even his gaze was gentle. "The sea was a bit rough as it is always in autumn." He handed his helm to a squire and pushed his fingers through his hair where the weight of the steel had crushed it down. "But nothing that we haven't seen before." He clasped Robert by the arms. Behind him was a knight is blue steel armor, a bit taller than Robert himself. His steel was a deep cobalt, his mount barded in the quartered sun-and-moon heraldry of House Tarth. The Evenstar took a step back and bid the knight come closer. "My lord, my daughter, Brienne."

The knight in the blue armor took her helm off and bowed her head. "Lord Robert," she said, her broad homely face showing no emotions. The hair beneath the helm was a squirrel's nest of dirty straw. Robert nodded. A big strong woman to look at her, dressed in mail and plate and wears longsword and dagger, he had not expected to see someone like her there. So this is the girl, Renly spoke so much of. A thousand freckles speckled her cheeks and brow, and her nose had been broken more than once. Back when Robert had been in the Eyrie with Jon and Ned, a singer had once told them that all maids looked lovely in silks. He pictured her in one of Cersei's silken gowns in place of her blue steel armor but somehow she looked awkward in that unlike the armor. The woman seemed more comfortable in her armor than he thought she would. Robert watched her eyes. Pretty eyes, he thought, and calm. He could hear the murmuring of the men all around him.

"Well met, Lady Brienne," he replied, his voice carrying over the camp. He could see that calling her a lady was making her uncomfortable. "My brother spoke of your skill and valor."

He never knew if what Renly spoke of her was true or not, but to wear a armor and carry a sword against men that act itself deserved respect. Looking at the woman, Robert idly remembered his own daughter. Argella might've worn a sword if Cersei was not so deadbeat on taking it away from her. But even as a girl his daughter preferred her bow over swords or other heavy weapon. He was sure that she would like this Lady Tarth without a doubt. Where other women might look down upon Brienne for her lack of beauty, Robert could not think of a reason why his daughter might do so. She might not, he thought, not his daughter, not the girl who begged him so hard to knight her and passed her knightly trials by clearing all the crabapples from the biggest tree in his woods with her arrows before any his harvesters could clear off the other smaller trees with each tree serviced by four of them. She is likely to ride with Brienne and take that road for her life.

By then his lords had all come from their tents. All greeted Lord Selwyn with a smile but most of them only had scowls and glares for his daughter but none dared to say anything about the matter when their lord himself had welcomed her to their camp. "Lets go inside," he said. "We need to talk."

Inside the brazier was already lit and the cook was mulling wine for them, stirring the kettle with a spoon. "I need to know what I can expect to find at Griffin's Roost," Robert asked.

Guyard Morrigan shrugged. It was him who held the command here before Robert relieved him of it. "Connington has sent the letters all throughout our lands. It is the Hand's doing. He hoped that we would answer his call to come against you. Our scouts say that Ronald sits inside the castle, probably has a good host around him." Robert seated himself upon a camp stool and his lords followed him. "He must have no idea that we've camped up here. If we attacked them by the night we can take them unawares."

"Is that wine hot yet?" Robert asked the cook.

"Yes, m'lord." The cook replied and served the wine on a golden platter, another one of Cersei's bloody things in my warcamp. Damn that woman. Robert pulled off his gloves and took a cup. The platter circled the tent and when everyone had taken one it returned back. Gendry denied his cup and the one was returned by the cook.

Robert lifted his own cup and took a swallow. The warmth spread through his chest. "And Jon Connington?"

"The lord Hand is enjoying the privelages of being the Hand of the King more than he does as the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands," said Lord Ralph Buckler. "He is too busy doing his grace's work that he could not even come home to gather his army."

"More like he is afraid to do so," Bryce Caron replied.

"Ronald is not as stern as Jon Connington," said Lord Fell. "Why don't we try to treat with him?"

"Ah, it'll be a waste of time," replied Lord Gulian Swann. "Ronald Connington has barred the gates ever since word from the north came to him. He'll not yield. He thinks the dragons will come to his rescue if we betrayed him."

"Have you tried to treat with him?" Robert asked.

"Lord Fell did. Rode up to the castle gates under the peace banner and your own standard," Bryce Caron said. "Ronnet Connington appeared on the ramparts long enough to say that he would not waste his words on lesser beings when he has dragons guarding his back."

"Very well, then. I'll treat with them," said Robert. "If that doesn't goes to plan we storm the castle." If he could end this thing as quick as possible, he could march north soon enough.

"You are welcome to try, my lord, but I doubt that words will win the day," Caron said. "We need to storm the castle."

There had been a time, not so long ago, when Robert would doubtless have urged the same course. But he knew he could not sit here for two years to starve the castle out. "Whatever we do needs to be done quickly," he told his lords. "The quicker Connington is dealt with the better so we can march north."

"I cannot waste any time," Robert said. "Tyrell is pushing his army forth to the Riverlands, if he should turn east and block the stormroad for us, we'll get stuck here. And I cannot march north leaving Connington unchecked in my rear. Griffin's Roost must be dealt with before we can march north and it must be done soon."

"Ronnet Connington is the true power holding the Connington army," said Lord Wylde. "We take him and his army down, Griffin's Roost is done with it."

"But we try to take it down without a fight," Robert said. "If that doesn't work, then we'll storm the castle." That put an end to their war council. As soon as they were done with the council, Robert led his army south towards the ancestral seat of the Conningtons.

The last part of their journey to Griffin's Roost was cold and gusty with the smell of rain in the air. The wind rattled amongst the branches in the wide green woods and let the soft murmur of the brooks here and there, clear as a crystal, rode forth along with it. It was late afternoon when they sighted Grifin's Roost. The castle rose from the shores of Cape Wrath, on a lofty crag of dark red stone surrounded on three sides by the surging waters of Shipbreaker Bay. Its only approach was defended by a gatehouse, behind which lay the long bare ridge the Conningtons called the griffin's throat. To force the throat could be a bloody business, since the ridge exposed the attackers to the spears, stones, and arrows of defenders in the two round towers that flanked the castle's main gates.

"Set camps surrounding the castle," Robert said. "No one is to leave."

"Lord Selwyn," he called, "They will try to send out ravens," he told the Evenstar. "Watch the maester's tower. Here." He pointed to the tower on the castle. "Bring down every bird that leaves the castle."

"Aye, my lord," he said.

Their camps surrounded the castle from all three sides, only leaving the shores of Cape Wrath free for any man inside the castle to dare cross the treacherous waters of the narrow sea. Robert split his host into three great camps sealing the castle away from any help through the land.

"My lord," Newt asked, "where do you want your tent?"

"There, upon that rise." He pointed with his right hand. "Baggage there, horse lines there. We'll use the land and woods to our advantage. Noye, inspect our perimeter with an eye for any weaknesses." Robert did not anticipate an attack, but he had not forgotten the dragons as well.

Robert beckoned to Stefon Staedmon. "Shake out a peace banner and bear a message to the castle. Inform Ronald Connington that I would have words with him, as evening falls over his castle today. I will come to his gates and meet him on his gatehouse."

At dusk, when there camp was set around, Silveraxe Fell blew the warhorn to announce their arrival to the castle folk. The sound of the warhorn brought a griffin to the gatehouse but it was not the one Robert has wanted to parley with. It was Ronnet Connington who came to the gatehouse to parley with him not his father Ronald.

His armor was red and polished to a high sheen that it shone in the dying evening light. Robert did not know if he was called as Red Ronnet because of the red armor or the equally bright red hair and beard. Over it he covered himself in a hooded red cloak as he waited in his gatehouse flanked by dozens of archers.

Jon Connington had no love for Robert, he knew that. But this Ronnet or the father in whose place he was here were only holding the castle hoping that the dragons will come and save them. Robert himself brought only his son to treat with Connington while the bulk of the force stood yards behind waiting, knights in their shining armors and a dozen banners flapping hoping to tell Connington that there was no hope.

He drew up a yard from the gatehouse, and looked up to Connington. "Lord Robert," said Red Ronnet.

"Ser Ronnet," he responded politely.

"I assume you have come to honor your duty to House Connington," Ronnet said. "As I recall, you and those men you've brought with you were the vassals of Griffin's Roost."

"I hope not," Robert said. "Trust and oaths mean little more than shit to your king as he proved it in Starfall. Why should I honor them?"

"Pity. Do you wish to betray your king again, my lord? Have you forgotten what happened to your dear friend."

Don't you bring him up, you bastard. "I have not forgotten it and never will I," Robert said. "I intent to say that to your king as well."

"You best make it quick, my lord lest you never get your chance."

Oh, I will get my chance or else I will make mine own. Don't you worry about it. "I came to speak of the loyalty of your castle and father, not of what is mine to the king."

"Why then, you have wasted your time." Beneath his red brows, Connington's eyes were watching for any threats. "My father holds this castle for our cousin, the lord Hand Jon. Our fealties extend to our overlord and House Targaryen unlike those traitors who stand behind you."

You are a bloody fool. The moment that I'm done with you here those dragons will not even pay you a second look. "We don't have to cause any more bloodshed in our own lands," Robert said. "We can prevent our men from dying . . ."

"If we yield our castle to you," Connington gave a sly smile, "if we turned traitors and oathbreakers like those lords who stand with you. If we became a rebel and an outlaw like you and your friend."

Robert did not allow himself to be provoked. "Rhaegar gave me no choice but to choose between a block or the black. I'm giving you a better bargain than you could have hoped for."

Ronnet Connington smiled a sly smile. "You do not lack for gall, my lord. You should have known better than to take up arms against the king if you do not wish to end up like your friend."

I know what choice they gave for Ned, you stupid. "I don't want more bloodshed on my lands. Strike your banners and open your gates and I'll grant your men their lives. If you wish to remain at Griffin's Roost you may do so. I will not have you taking up arms against me or any of mine."

Connington narrowed his eyes. "As much tempting as the offer is, I think I'll pass. When the dragons come sweeping over you, all that would be left of you are char and ash."

Damn the bloody stupid. "There is a quicker way to decide the matter. A single combat. You against me but if you're not brave enough to cross paths with me send me your champion."

"Why would I do that?" Red Ronnet laughed. "I'm here safe behind the walls of my castle. Why should I come out to face you when all I need is to wait for dragon to come and burn you all alive."

"Oh, you don't have to wait that long," Robert reminded him. "If you will not yield the castle, I must storm it. Hundreds will die."

"Hundreds of mine. Thousands of yours. Good luck trying to get past the Griffin's throat," Ronnet said. "You might have twenty times the men I have, my lord. But twenty times the men require twenty times the food. How well are you provisioned, my lord?"

"Well enough to sit here till the end of days if need be, whilst you starve inside your walls." He told the lie as boldly as he could and hoped his face did not betray him. Let him think I'm going to sit here for a siege.

"As you say, my lord," replied Connington. "Our own supplies are ample, though I fear we did not leave much in the fields for visitors."

"So be it," Robert said. "When the sun sets, your castle shall fall." He did not wait for a reply and turned his horse's head about for the long ride back to his camp.

"Should we prepare for the siege father?" asked his son.

"No," Robert said. "I meant it. Griffin's Roost will fall this night and a siege is not going to do that. Assemble a war council. You should get your hammer now."

They gathered quickly. Lord Fell and Grandison and Cafferan and Estermont and Errol and Wylde and Swann and Caron and Tarth and Staedmon and Selmy and Buckler and the others came to his tent at once. Even the lady Brienne accompanied her father in dressed in her blue steel armor.

"Connington will not give up the castle," Robert said. "So we have a castle to win before we can march north. Connington believes that I will sit here forever in siege but I plan to storm the castle."

"Storm the castle at once," urged Lord Bryce Caron. "That will teach him a lesson, it may move the garrison to yield."

"We need some rams and other things." said his grandfather, old lord Estermont, the Lord of Greenstone. "Griffin's Roost is small, but strong."

Gulian Swann inclined his head to look at the map on the table. "We have to storm the walls before they could even know we're there. We have a ram to break the gate, some scaling ladders, take that gate down and Griffin's Roost is ours."

"Storming the walls will be a bloody business," Robert said. "Especially when doing it through the Griffin's Throat. Surprise is our asset here. Connington thinks I'm going to sit and starve him out so he will not expect an attack coming. I will lead the attack. We take the ram, break the gates down, destroy Connington's army and take the castle."

"But, my lord, the defenders from the throat," hesitated Lord Staedmon.

"We'll use shields to cover our heads," Robert said. "The best of the archers from the marches and the Sapphire Isle will fall in with the main host. When the defenders stop to reload, we open our shields and make way for the archers to clear them. I want someone to take command of the ram, to keep it safe until its purpose is done."

"I will do it," Gendry said at once and all the eyes in the tent turned to look at his son.

"My lord, its too dangerous," said Gulian Swann. "Let me send one of my sons. It will. . ."

"It will not make it any less dangerous," replied his son. He turned to him. "Let me take command of the ram, father."

"I'll accompany Lord Gendry," Lady Brienne volunteered.

"So will I," said Ser Balon Swann, the younger son of Lord Gulian.

Robert looked down at the map once again. "As you wish," he said at last. "Check your armor and weapons, you'll be meeting with resistance. We attack at night."

As the last light of the sun faded, Red Ronnet's men stared into the gathering darkness, clutching their spears and crossbows. Robert led the bulk of the forces towards the gatehouse, arranged five men for each row, each carrying a shield to protect themselves and the formation of their army from the defenders above. The sentries were the first to fall, his archers making quick work of them. Whatever bow the archers from the marches carried, all of them were sharp-eyed, as skilled using it as his daughter was. They proved it at Griffin's Roost. All the arrows that took flight from his men found a target at the men on the walls.

The gatehouse where he had parleyed with Ser Ronnet earlier that day was the first to fall. And it fell within minutes. Before them went the rolling ram; a tree trunk with a fire-hardened point suspended on chains beneath a wooden roof. Robert could see his son flanked by Lady Brienne and Ser Balon Swann and his company of forty to guard the ram moving close with it.

His men were halfway up the throat before a warhorn sounded the alarum from the castle proper.

The first raven took flight as their grapnels were arcing above the curtain wall and their ladders were taking stand all along the walls, the second a few moments later. Neither bird had flown a hundred yards before an arrow took it down. Soon guards emerged from both the towers flanking the main gate and then arrows and brick and all the other kind of things flew onto them.

"Shields up," Robert's voice carried through to the long column of his army.

Together as if it was one long arm, his men locked shields over their head. A dozen things thudded against their cover but none managed to penetrate. When he could feel nothing for a moment he saw that this was his chance. "Archers," he shouted and his men opened their shields to make way for the archers. Dozens of arrows took flight as one, their thrum echoed by the sound of men dying.

"Back to formation," Robert said again and their shields fell back to lock into the places. The main gate proved harder to break than the outer one. For a moment Robert thought to climb onto the walls through a ladder a open the gates from the inside. He might want to clear the towers though else that will leave his army exposed. Suddenly he saw Gendry climbing one of the ladders with Lady Brienne and Ser Balon following closely behind him. His men were putting up other ladders as well. Swords were soon ringing in half a dozen places along the battlements. The men of his son's company clambered through the merlons and raced along the wallwalks, shouting "Storm's End! Storm's End!" He spied Gendry knocking off a knight from the wall, though by the way his son's hammer caught the man's head Robert could swear that he died before his body touched the ground. Behind him, his company was overwhelming the Connington men-at-arms. Ser Balon's morningstar was finding enemies left at right. Lady Brienne for all her part was passing through grown men as if they were little children playing with sticks.

That was not enough though, Robert knew. Connington must have a big host around him inside the walls. They cannot fight them with some forty men. Just like that, the gate gave way as his men inside unbarred it. The ram took one last swing, bigger than all the ones before and wood and iron alike splintered.

"Ours is the fury," Robert roared and pushed forward. His men took up the cry and followed. He dropped the shield and took his hammer from his back. The first blow from his hammer sent a guardsman flying into the broken gate, though he could not say if he died after hitting the gate or if he died even before hitting the gate.

Inside the walls there was no end for foes. The night air was filled with the rattle of armor, the scrape of swords on scabbards, the banging of spears on shields, mingled with curses and the hoofbeats of racing horses. A torch sailed spinning above his head, trailing fingers of fire as it thumped down in the dirt of the yard.

Shouts of Baratheon and Connington swept through the air. When four men assaulted him at the gate with axes and swords, Robert fought them all at once. He smashed in the face of a man with his hammer, drove the spike through the skull of another. When the third one hacked his sword at his head, Robert blocked it haft of his hammer and kicked him hard, sending him back to the ground. He ducked beneath the axe of the other one and shattered his knee before killing him by cracking his skull. By the time he searched for the third man whom he had kicked he was lost to him in the commotion.

All around him, steel shadows were running through the castle, firelight shining off mail and blades but Robert only had eyes for Red Ronnet Connington on his horse in the far end of the yard fending of two men and running his horse through one. The night rang to the clash of steel and the cries of the wounded and dying. He knocked the helm off a knight before breaking his face with his hammer.

His men were overwhelming the defenders of Griffin's Roost. Robert pushed for Connington. His hammer broke bones and armor alike as he smashed his way through the Connington men. He found Red Ronnet still on his horse hacking his sword wildly at anyone who comes near him. Robert slung his hammer behind his back and drew the hunting knife Jon had given him as a boy. He charged into Connington's flank, stabbing his mount through the ribs into its lungs.

The horse gave a harsh whinny and reared sending Connington to the ground and dropped down dead on the ground. When Red Ronnet Connington looked up at him from the ground the battle was all done around them. What guards remained had thrown down their weapons. Red Ronnet gave one last try to slay him and raised his sword up. Robert brought his hammer in backhanded swing and sent the sword flying from his grasp. Connington fell down again, clutching his forearm to his chest. "I yield," he said, scared. "Mercy, my lord."

Robert brought the hammer down and the castle yard was filled with the victory cry of his men all around him. And quick as that, the day was theirs.

"Ser Braendan," he said after the wounded were taken to the maester's tower and the dead were cleared, "go through the keep and kitchens and roust out everyone you find. Noye, do the same with the maester's tower and the armory. Ser Deacon, the stables, sept, and barracks. Bring them out into the yard, and try not to kill anyone who does not insist on dying. I will not have more blood shed in the stormlands."

"Consider it done, my lord," said Ser Braendan Wylde.

Robert watched them dash off, then beckoned to Rippert Errol. "Take charge of the rookery and the maester. I'll have messages to send out tonight."

He saw Gendry walking towards him with a man with the same red hair of Red Ronnet. The gold and black armor of his son was stained with blood. Brienne of Tarth and Balon Swann flanked him and the others followed. It looked as if he had not even lost a single man in the company he had taken inside the castle to open the gates for them.

Even Robert himself was impressed by his victory. Ronnet Connington had promised that thousands of his men would die before taking Griffin's Roost but Robert had done it with the loss of less than thirty men. He had promised Connington that his castle will fall tonight and he was glad he kept his promise unlike Red Ronnet.

"Father," Gendry announced, "the castellan of Griffin's Roost."

"My lord," Ronald Connington fell to his knees.

"Do you swear your fealty and sword to me now, my lord?" he asked.

"I do," Ronald said. "My lord."

"Get up," Robert said, "as lord of Griffin's Roost then. Jon Connington is nothing to me, no more than Rhaegar is. You are no longer the castellan but the lord of this castle. As a penalty for your defiance certain lands will be taken away from you. If you accept my proposal then we can enter the castle together as allies."

Ronald Connington looked confused for a moment. Then he took a step back. "Griffin's Roost is yours, my lord of Storm's End," he said at last. Robert smiled knowing that he had secured the Stormlands once and for all.

* * *

 _ **A/N:**_ _ **A look at Stormlands and how things are standing there. Robert Baratheon is back in the game. He is planning to march north now that Griffin's Roost is dealt with. I hope you guys like it. Please leave a review and let me kno what you guys think. I'd love to hear your thoughts. Thanks for sparing your time to read my story and have a nice day.**_


	63. Chapter 63

**_Jorah_**

The most perilous part of the voyage was the last. The Redwyne Straits were swarming with longships, as they had been warned in King's Landing. With the main strength of the Arbor's fleet inland in the port of Oldtown, the few sellsword ships with the direwolf banner streaming from their masts had been attacking every enemy shipping bound for Oldtown to join forces with the Redwyne and Hightower navy.

Thrice longships were sighted by the crow's nest. Two were well astern, however, and the royal navy of King Rhaegar Tadown. The third appeared near sunset, to cut them off from Whispering Sound. When they saw her oars rising and falling, lashing the copper waters white, Ser Jorah Mormont sent his archers to the castles with their great bows of Dornish yew that could send a shaft farther and truer than any normal bows. Only the bows made of dragonbone and the goldenheart tree in the Summer Isles could outreach them. He waited till the longship came within two hundred yards before he gave the command to loose. One volley was all it took. The longship of the sellswords veered south and was caught in between Wolfsbane and Ruby, both of them crushing the galley as if it was some rag doll.

A deep blue dusk was falling as they entered Whispering Sound. Jorah stood beside the prow with the captain of the Dragonborn, the mightiest of the war galleys the new Master of Ships made for House Targaryen. Smaller only to Balerion, the flagship of House Targaryen, the vessel was a formidable foe to anything that comes in its path. Jorah Mormont had never liked Aurane Waters for he spent too much time with Princess Daenerys for his liking, but even he had to admit the bastard of Driftmark made a good job making the ship.

He gazed up at the castle on the cliffs. Three Towers, Jorah knew it, the seat of House Costayne. He had seen it before once, when he came here for his wedding to Lynesse. Etched against the evening stars with torchlight flickering from its windows, the castle made a splendid sight, but he was sad to see it. It reminded him of Lynesse and their miserable marriage.

"It's very tall," said Ed, the captain of the Dragonborn, who'd never seen these lands before.

"Wait until you see the Hightower."

The sellswords had penetrated even to the sheltered waters of Whispering Sound. Come morning, as the Dragonborn continued on toward Oldtown, he began to see other sellsword ships up the stream and drifting down to the sea. Scorched fields and burned villages appeared on the banks, and the shallows and sandbars were strewn with shattered ships. Merchanters and fishing boats were the most common, but they saw abandoned longships too, and the wreckage of two big dromonds. One had been burned down to the waterline, whilst the other had a gaping splintered hole in her side where her hull had been rammed.

"There has been a battle here," said Ed. "Not so long ago."

"I never knew that the wolf boy is so mad as to raid this close to Oldtown."

Ed pointed at a half-sunken longship in the shallows. The remnants of a banner drooped from her stern, smoke-stained and ragged. The charge was one Jorah has been seeing for a few days now: the grey direwolf of House Stark but it was the other one which caught his eyes: the violet rose. "The Company of Rose is here?" Jorah asked. Ed only shrugged.

The next day was cold and misty. As the Dragonborn was creeping past another plundered fishing village, a war galley came sliding from the fog, stroking slowly toward them. Huntress was the name she bore, behind a figurehead of a slender maiden clad in leaves and brandishing a spear. A heartbeat later, two smaller galleys appeared on either side of her, like a pair of matched greyhounds stalking at their master's heels. To Jorah's relief, they flew King Rhaegar black and red three headed dragon banner above the stepped white tower of Oldtown, with its crown of flame.

So Lord Leyton is sporting his King's colors, not his foolish grandson's. My work here might come in quite handy after all, Jorah sighed. Like everyone else at court it was shocking for Jorah Mormont when King Rhaegar chose him to take command of the royal fleet in their voyage to join forces with the Redwyne fleet. He couldn't understand why such an important task was given to a northman like , until Oldtown came into the talk. Unlike the other great houses of the Reach, the Hightowers were close kin to the Starks of Winterfell. Lord Leyton Hightower was the great grandfather of the rebel king Andrew Stark through his mother's side. Lord Leyton had stayed his hands in the wars between the crown and the Outlaw King in the past. For Eddard Stark was married to his granddaughter. Since the return of Stark's son, there has been whispers of how Lord Hightower had been scheming with his grandson against the crown. It was then Jorah was chosen to lead the expedition. King Rhaegar chose him not because of his ability to lead but because he is Lord Leyton's goodson, putting Lord Hightower in a position to choose between his families.

The captain of the Huntress was a tall man in a smoke-grey cloak with a border of red satin flames. He brought his galley in alongside the Dragonborn, raised his oars, and shouted that he was coming aboard. As his crossbowmen and the Hightower archers eyed each other across the narrow span of water, the captain crossed over with half a dozen knights, gave Jorah a nod.

"My apologies," the captain said when he was done with the greetings. "It grieves me that our loyal friends must suffer such discomfort to enter our lands, but sooner that than the rebels in Oldtown. Only a fortnight ago some of those bloody bastards captured a Tyroshi merchantman in the straits. They captured her crew, donned their clothes, and used the dyes they found to color theirs whiskers half a hundred colors. Once inside the walls they meant to set the port and the Redwyne fleet ablaze and open a gate from within whilst we fought the fire. Might have worked, but they ran afoul of the Lady of the Tower, and her oarsmaster has a Tyroshi wife. When he saw all the green and purple beards he hailed them in the tongue of Tyrosh, and not one of them had the words to hail him back."

Jorah was shocked. "They cannot mean to capture Oldtown."

The captain of the Huntress gave him a curious look. "These are no mere sellswords. Half a hundred of their ships afflict us now, sailing out of the Shield Islands and some of the rocks around the Arbor. We couldn't sail for the north leaving them behind. Now that you are here we can deal with them soon enough."

"What is Lord Hightower doing?" Jorah asked. Surely he must be doing something. He was as wealthy as the Lannisters, and could command thrice as many swords as any of Highgarden's other bannermen.

"He is just following our good king's orders," the captain said, "waiting to join our strength with yours."

"The Hightower must be doing something."

"To be sure. Lord Leyton's locked atop his tower with the Mad Maid, consulting books of spells. Might be he'll raise an army from the deeps. Or not. Baelor's building galleys, Gunthor has charge of the harbor, Garth is training new recruits, and Humfrey's gone to Lys to hire sellsails. If he can winkle a proper fleet, we can start moving for the north without worrying a thing. Till then, the best we can do is destroy the enemy fleet at sea before moving anywhere else."

The bitterness of the captain's final words shocked Jorah as much as the things he said. If King's Landing loses Oldtown and the Arbor, the whole realm will fall to pieces, he thought as he watched the Huntress and her sisters moving off.

They reached Oldtown on a cold damp morning, when the fog was so thick that the beacon of the Hightower was the only part of the city to be seen. A boom stretched across the harbor, linking two dozen rotted hulks. Just behind it stood a line of warships, anchored by three big dromonds and Lord Hightower's towering four-decked banner ship, the Honor of Oldtown. Lord Redwyne's fleet had their own place in the port. Lord Leyton's son Gunthor eyed him from the port gate, dressed in a cloth-of-silver cloak and a suit of grey enameled scales. Ser Gunthor was an able man and had studied at the Citadel for several years and spoke different languages, but he had no words for his dishonored goodbrother.

For the first time in the entire journey Jorah Mormont doubted his entire purpose of being there. He was little loved in the Hightower family. They should have sent someone else, not me. But it was him who is here now. Its better to close your eyes and get on with it. Before getting down he took the time to explain his plans to his captain. "First the Hightower, to meet with Lord Leyton. I expect the commander of the Redwyne fleet will be there as well. Then we will talk about sailing to the north as the king instructed."

"Aye, my lord," the captain said and shouted some commands to the crew.

Ser Gunthor gave the signal for the chain to be opened so the royal fleet could slip through the boom to dock. Jorah joined Captain Ed and five of his knights near the gangplank as the war galley was tying up.

Jorah led his knights across the plank, ashore. He hoped he still remembered the way to the Hightower. Oldtown was a maze, and he had no time for getting lost.

The day was damp, so the cobblestones were wet and slippery underfoot, the alleys shrouded in mist and mystery. Jorah avoided them as best he could and stayed on the river road that wound along beside the Honeywine through the heart of the old city. It felt good to have solid ground beneath his feet again instead of a rolling deck, but the walk made him feel uncomfortable all the same. He could feel eyes on him, peering down from balconies and windows, watching him from the darkened doorways. On the Dragonborn he had known every face. Here, everywhere he turned he saw another stranger. Even worse was the thought of being seen by someone who knew him. Jorah Mormont was known in Oldtown, but little loved. He pulled his cloak up and quickened his pace.

Downriver, the distant beacon of the Hightower floated in the damp of night like a hazy orange moon, but the light did little to lift his spirits.

As the early morning's mists burned away, Oldtown took form around him, emerging ghostlike from the morning gloom. Where King's Landing, was a daub-and-wattle city, a sprawl of mud streets, thatched roofs, and wooden hovels. Oldtown was built in stone, and all its streets were cobbled, down to the meanest alley. The city was never more beautiful than at break of day. West of the Honeywine, the Guildhalls lined the bank like a row of palaces. Upriver, the domes and towers of the Citadel rose on both sides of the river, connected by stone bridges crowded with halls and houses. Downstream, below the black marble walls and arched windows of the Starry Sept, the manses of the pious clustered like children gathered round the feet of an old dowager.

And beyond, where the Honeywine widened into Whispering Sound, rose the Hightower, its beacon fires bright against the dawn. From where it stood atop the bluffs of Battle Island, its shadow cut the city like a sword. Those born and raised in Oldtown could tell the time of day by where that shadow fell. Some claimed a man could see all the way to the Wall from the top. Perhaps that was why Lord Leyton had not made the descent in more than a decade, preferring to rule his city from the clouds.

The foundation of the Hightower was a fortress of black stone of uncertain origin on Battle Isle. The stone reminded him of the indestructible Valyrian roads and the Black Walls of Volantis. A possible Valyrian origin of the black stone was supported by the claim of Maester Jellicoe. Jellicoe believed that Oldtown began as a trading post for ships of Valyria,Old Ghis, and the Summer Isles, predating the arrival of the First Men to Westeros. While Septon Barth claimed that Valyrians came to Westeros because their priests prophesied that the Doom of Man would come out of the land beyond the narrow sea and they assisted in building the foundation.

In contrast to the Valyrian theory, Archmaester Quillion in his words suggests that the fortress was made by the mazemakers.

Maester Theron suggests it was created by Deep Ones, citing its similarities to the Seastone Chair of the Iron Islands.

Some smallfolk even believed that the High Tower simply appeared one day and has been there ever since.

The fabled High Tower of the Hightowers itself had stories of its own. The first Hightowers ruled from the ancient black fortress. Dwelling in the chambers of the fortress, the family built a wooden beacon tower rising some fifty feet rising above to light the way for trading vessels in foggy Whispering Sound. Over the years the first "high tower" was followed by taller timber towers.

King Uthor of the High Tower paid for the construction of a stone tower. Some say that this fifth tower, which rose two hundred feet above the harbor and made the castle a seat worthy of a great house, was designed by Bran the Builder, while others say it was by his son, another Brandon. Whichever tale was true, the Hightowers finally had their High Tower worthy enough to be called as the tallest tower in the known world.

The labyrinthine square fortress of unadorned black stone at the castle's foundation contained gloomy halls, vaults, and chambers. To meet with his allies he would have to reach the high hall. He wondered if Lord Leyton would come down from the top of his tower to receive him.

Inside, they were led to the high hall by the steward of the castle. Once inside the doors he found his thoughts going back to Lynesse again.

The high hall was a huge room with a stone floor and high, arched windows. At the far end of the hall a close group of men sat upon the high table on the raised dais, breaking their fast on bacon and eggs. It was Ser Baelor, Lord Leyton's heir who saw him first. Clad in a lush velvet doublet, the future lord of Hightower was as handsome and charming as a prince. Ser Baelor was well known and well loved around Oldtown that it was him who ruled the city for his father for the last decade.

The steward cleared his throat to announce their presence. "My lords, Ser Jorah Mormont and the knights from King's Landing."

"Good morrow," Jorah greeted them when he was finished.

The men glanced up and saw him and his party.

"Come join us," Ser Baelor replied. "We were waiting for you."

Jorah took a seat on the bench and his men followed him.

"Took you long enough to come," said a comely youth in green satin clothes who sat beside Ser Baelor.

"We had troubles on the way."

"Don't tell me that a couple of sellsails managed to hinder the royal fleet." He chewed a crispy bacon.

"No," Jorah replied, "but it takes time to sink the ships which dares to hinder us on the way."

"But not too much like this, I believe."

"Come now Ser Loras, at least our friends from King's Landing helped us by sinking those ships," Ser Baelor said.

"I would've said its helpful for us if we didn't have to stay here so long for them."

So, its him who is leading the Redwyne fleet. Now Lord Leyton might have to choose between one grandson or the other. Tough choice for any old man, Jorah knew.

Slim as a sword, lithe and fit, Ser Loras Tyrell wore a green satin tunic and gold wool breeches, with a gold belt around his waist and a gold rose clasping his fine silk cloak. His hair was a soft brown tumble, and his eyes were brown as well, and bright with insolence. He thinks this is a tourney, and his tilt has just been called. "Surely we had not kept you so far away from your victory, Ser," said Jorah.

"Of course not," replied Ser Loras. "For we had been hunting the sellswords infesting our lands and waters."

"You must be proud," Jorah said.

"Yes, my lord." He smiled.

Jorah hated that smile. "You need to remember that its no tourney that we are sailing for, Ser Loras. War is much different than what you young men believe it is."

"And you're old," the boy said. "My lord. It doesn't fare well with older people as well."

The men on the bench laughed. Even his own men did laugh at that. "Old, aye," he admitted. "Older and wiser, ser. You should learn from me."

"As you learned from the sellswords in your exile?"

That arrow hit too close to the mark. "I learned from Eddard Stark, the King in the North," Jorah snapped. "Surely your lord father must have taught you something about him."

"Yes," the knight of flowers admitted. "But only that he is dead."

"He might be dead and gone but it is his own blood we are going to fight against."

"Even Eddard Stark was killed," said Loras Tyrell, "let's see what his blood can do. I hope to come to grips with Stark. Then we will see if he is as deadly as they praise him to be." With that Loras and his companions left the table leaving him alone with Ser Baelor and his men.

The rest of the meal continued in a complete silence except for the talks of his men and Ser Baelor telling his plans to Ed, his captain.

They were to set sail for the north at dusk. The Hightower fleet would stay at Oldtown with the Honor of Oldtown as the main center of defence should Stark have any sellsails hidden behind the rocks to take them in the rear. It was a sound plan.

With another voyage coming forth at dusk, Jorah Mormont opted to drowse for the rest of the day in a featherbed. At dusk, he was woken up by Iven, the second mate of Ed.

By the time he reached the Dragonborn, she was all ready to set forth for battle. All around her the other ships were also packed with men and swords. Jorah saw Ser Loras upon the flagship of the Redwyne fleet with one of Lord Paxtor's twins beside him but he couldn't tell who it was from the distance.

The port was crowded with the ships in their hundreds: Queen Lyanna, Sea Dragon, Wolfsbane, Ruby, Blackfyre, Queen Rhaella, King's Fire, Pyro, Princess Rhaenys, Justice, Red Dragon, Swift, Viserion, Queen Alysanne, Rhaegal, Prince's Power, and Nightmare.

There were others as well, but he could not find the Hightower fleet anywhere around. Even Honor of Oldtown was nowhere to be found. They must have gone to take care of the sellswords, he thought then.

Across the sea a warhorn boomed, telling the world that they are sailing for war. The men put up shouts of their own, battle cries of thousands that filled the city.

The warhorn boomed from the High Tower once again. This time though it seemed as if the sound came from the sky. He looked up at the High Tower and could see a couple of movements there at the top. He could not make out as to who they were but he still knew them. So the Oldman of Oldtown finally came out of his chambers to see us off.

For a moment silence took hold of the world. The blowing west wind seemed to stop. Suddenly, like a bird that makes quick changes in its flight, the wind started to blow from the east, then from the north, then from the south and from the west until it all met at the port causing the ships to collide with each other. The calm evening sea roused its waves slowly, boiling like an overcooked stew. Before he could figure out what was happening the waves were upon them smashing anything and everything in its path.

He saw the flagship of the Redwyne fleet engulfed in a huge wave nearing almost fourty feet at height. The wave hit them with such force that Ser Loras and his men were thrown off the deck three boats away. He stood there frozen for a moment and then the deck disappeared beneath him and the water rushed to kiss him.

Everything in his eyesight around him split asunder by the power of the water and was smashed against the waves. The huge war galleys, the pride of the great fleet were destroyed as if they were nothing more than a child's toys. Rocks around the port burst and fiery fountains spewed molten rock a hundred feet into the air, and onto the men. To the north, the chain was lowered at the entrance to the port to cut off any escape, and the angry sea came boiling in. Jorah looked around him. The proudest fleet in all the world was gone in an instant, smashed away to the wrath of the sea.

Then he looked up at the High Tower. In the setting sun the glow of the flame on its crown gave the High Tower an ethereal beauty but it was not the ordinary orange flames he had seen earlier that day. No, now it was a bright green flame which lightened the High Tower, calling its banners for battle. Jorah smiled weakly from his watery grave. So Lord Leyton has finally chosen the grandson he is going to fight for.


	64. Chapter 64

**_Rhaegar_**

"I am so sick of Robert and his impudence," the king's voice echoed against the high rafters of the throne room of the Red Keep. "Damn him and his Stormlords."

Seated on the high steps beneath the Iron Throne, Rhaegar could feel a growing tightness in his neck. The last raven that flew to the Red Keep also brought ill news as it has been for the past couple of moons. The letter from Andrew Stark was still fresh in Rhaegar's memory. Before he could deal with Stark and his northman another raven came in today, this time bearing news of the Stormlands and Robert.

Like he had expected, Robert finally raised his hammer against him and his house. As he fell upon Griffin's Roost with an army of traitors to finally thwart the last block in his path and rouse against him with his treacherous friends. Thousands of his men were butchered and Ronald Connington has yielded the castle to Robert Baratheon, giving his cousin a chance to march forth north to join with his precious Ned's son.

First Stark, now Robert, how many traitors should I have to deal with before I could fulfill my destiny. Somehow he knew that it is not going to stop with just the two of them. For all he knew, Jon Arryn could very well be bringing the knights of the Vale down the High road and the Old Lion is probably plotting along with them from the shadows.

His family and advisors stood at the foot of his throne, looking all sullen and afraid at the dragon's wroth. Ser Gerold and Ser Barristan were with him as well, their hard, old faces emotionless.

"Jon!" The king called his Hand. Lord Jon knelt at the base of the throne.

"I thought you had the Stormlands under your control," the king said. "If that's the case, how did I come to hear that Robert raised the Stormlords against my family?"

"Your Grace, I know naught of the plots Robert and his allies devised against you. Had I known, I would have brought their heads to you myself. Even now it hasn't gotten long, grant me leave to march against Robert and Stark and all those traitors, my king, and you'll have their heads mounted on a spike in no time."

"I need you here in King's Landing, not in some muddy pit," Rhaegar said and took his crown off his head. Of late the ruby encrusted circlet was more of an uncomfortable weight atop his head than a crown fit for a king.

"Richard," Rhaegar called, "take the host in King's Landing and march north for the Trident. Myles will join with you in Maidenpool. Hold the river and smash any army that try to pass it to get to Riverrun."

"Father," said a voice from below. Aegon climbed the steps to the throne and stopped at a few steps below him. "You think little of me during these times, father. But I'm to inherit these lands. Its time I showed you that I'm worthy enough of being your heir. Let me fight this battle for you."

Rhaegar chuckled despite the horror coiling around his throat. He was only sixteen, not even a man grown and was already speaking of wars as if it was some tourney he could ride in and win the love of the people. Rhaegar had already lost three children, two for the greater good and one because he was too much like his brother was now.

"What would you do son?" asked Rhaegar.

"Raise our dragon banner," answered his son, "and march forth against the north as you once done."

"Aegon!" Lyanna shrieked from behind. "What are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking with the right mind mother." Aegon turned back and looked pointedly at her face. "He dared cross our family and threatened father. What happened to Jaehaerys is an injustice done to him and our family and it is my duty to protect my brother and serve my family and guard the honour of our house against anyone who tries to hinder it."

"Your wedding is on the horizon," she said. "You will do no such thing as to riding forth for battle." She looked at him with unyielding grey eyes, challenging him. "Surely your father must have thought of something to deal with this mess he has created."

Rhaegar ignored Lyanna's scoff and looked to his son. He stood up from his place on the steps and walked down to where his son was standing. The king put his hands on Aegon's shoulder. "Jon, send the ravens to all the corners of the realm. Gather our men here at King's Landing. My son will raise the dragon banner and lead the royal army." He climbed further down the steps. "Let any man who ignore my call be proclaimed a traitor to the realm. We'll start the war on the morrow against the traitors Jon Arryn, Robert Baratheon and Andrew Stark."

"Richard will take his men with Myles and move for Harrenhal," Rhaegar said. "Tomorrow we are going for war. This audience is at an end."

"Your Grace," Lyanna called when he walked past her, "a word with you?"

Rhaegar nodded. His queen came to his side as the others left. Dawn was still several hours away when Rhaegar slipped out the king's door behind the Iron Throne. Ser Barristan went before him with a torch and Ser Gerold strolled along behind him. Lyanna walked beside him, hands tucked as if she was thinking about something strongly. "If it please Your Grace," she said, "young men are overbold, and think only of the glory of battle and never of its dangers. Your son . . . our son is not an exception. This plan of his to lead your troops into battle is fraught with peril. He thinks riding a dragon to battle against knights on horseback is easy enough as swatting flies. Both of us know that the truth is far from that. Jaehaerys learned it in the hard way. So I beg you, do not let Aegon share his fate as well."

"Why?" Rhaegar asked. "Do you not trust in the valour of our son?"

"I have no doubt that our son will be the first man to ride into battle for you," Lyanna said. "Valour means nothing when the cost for it is your life. Know that this nemesis you have created for yourself is no callow tourney champion but a seasoned killer. How many men did you lose in Braavos?"

He had no answer for that question. There had been several men lost to the sword of his nephew that night. He wondered if he could bear the lose of his son like that, the first and foremost of his three heads of the dragon. Then again Aegon's destiny is not to put down some mere rebels. He was destined to be the prince that was promised, to fight the Great Other. Bezzaro had told him that much. And with the dragon beside him no man can stand against him.

"Aegon is my heir, the crown prince," the king told her. "If he is to rule this kingdom after me, he has to defend it from the traitors who would gladly see us dead and take it from us. The men will not respect him if he is afraid to defend his lands. He will lead my troops into battle whether you like it or not."

A laugh burst from Lyanna's lips, and echoed down the hall.

Rhaegar stopped in his path and looked at her, confused. "Why would you laugh?"

"Why," his wife said, "because I find it funny about the way you talk about the respect of men. Is that the way you won the respect of your men when my brother chased you out of his kingdom? Or did you earn it when my brother's son sent you running for your life?"

Rhaegar laughed at her, making his wife confused now. "No," he admitted. "But I won something more when I killed your brother to your pleasure. Don't lie to yourself that all of this is happening because of my actions. You have your fair share in the things we did that led us here."

He left her on the serpentine steps in the black of the night. She must have gone mad if she thinks I'm to blame for what happened to Jaehaerys. She was the one who urged me to bestow Winterfell upon her son despite my plans to rebuilt Summerhall again for him. All Lyanna ever seemed to do of late was plague him with cautions and objections. She had even objected to the understanding he had reached with the great masters of Essos.

When the king finally reached his royal chambers, the candles which were burning when he left for the throne room had gone out. Rhaegar walked to the stand beside his bed and wrapped his middle finger, forefinger and thumb around the fat tallow candle. He watched at the wick of the candle intently as Bezzaro would look into his night fires. Heartbeats passed as it was always with the trick and then the king felt heat coming off him, steaming the cold night air around him. The candle wick took fire just like that, yellow flames burning brighter than any candle made by man. The blood of the dragon, Rhaegar smiled. He left the candle burning and went back to his sleep.

When he woke up the next morning, the candle was still burning, having not once consumed the tallow to feed the fire.

The king had wanted to speak to Bezzaro about the things happening, to get his counsel about everything that day. But the red priest had not yet returned from his voyage to the shadow lands of Asshai. I'm losing true friends and advisors, Rhaegar thought. He ought to return back soon enough.

There was a feast arranged in the Red Keep that evening. A farewell feast. He should get ready for the feast, to send his army forth to war.

The royal chambers in Maegor's Holdfast was larger than any other rooms of the Red Keep save for the Throne room. It was highly furnished with every comfort: feather mattress and sleeping furs, a wood-and-copper tub large enough for two, braziers, to keep off the night's chill, slung leather high chairs, a writing table with quills and inkpot, bowls of peaches, plums, and pears, a flagon of wine with a set of matched silver cups, cedar chests packed full of his kingly clothing, books, maps, game boards, his high harp, a longsword and a goldenwood shield, painted black with the red three headed dragon upon it and a vertible armory of fine weapons.

Beside the door, the king's armor stood sentry; a suit of jet black plate, its fittings chased with polished black steel. The helm was the same black as the armour as well and plumes of fine red silks streamed from the top resembling angry flames while he rode his warhorse against the wind and his foes. In the breastplate the three headed dragon of House Targaryen was encrusted with rubies upon his chest, the dark red stones catching the sunlight in them and glinting like bleeding stars. He had always thought that he might have to wear the fine suit again, but not so soon. The king turned away sharply, angry with Ned Stark, Ashara Dayne, their bloody son Andrew Stark, angry with Robert, angry with Jon Arryn and even with his own wife. In time they will all know what happens if you taunt the dragon. Rhaegar washed the night's sleep and his tiredness from his body in the bath and changed into a rich cotton doublet with a mail coat over it. The shirt of mail was more fitting for the farewell feast as he will sent his son and army forth to battle with his blessings.

When the time came for him to go to the feast, Rhaegar buckled his silver studded swordbelt and sheathed his longsword Blackfyre in the silver banded scabbard. Ser Oswell Whent and Ser Lewyn Martell accompanied him to the throne room of Aegon the Dragon.

Although evenfall was still an hour away, the throne room was already a blaze of light, with torches burning in every sconce. All the knights in King's Landing stood along the tables, dressed in plate and mail ready for battle. There were thousands of them, knights from the Crownlands and the Reach and Dorne alike. Pages in the royal livery escorted the lords and their ladies down the broad central aisle to their respective benches. The gallery above was packed with musicians; drummers and pipers and fiddlers, strings and horns and skins.

There were several thousand men gathered in the Red Keep that there was no enough room for everyone in the feast. Rhaegar walked past the neat and long columns of men and stood at the foot of the throne. From his raised position before the men he could see that the column of knights stretching to the far end of the hall like some great armoured snake.

Aegon stood at the head of the column of knights flanked by Ser Barristan Selmy and Ser Daemon Sand. His son was dressed in a fine suit of armour made of black steel which mirrored his own. The dark curls on Aegon's head was pulled back and was tied into a knot at the back of his head.

When the steward announced his presence to the people in the hall all of them knelt at once. Rhaegar bid them to stand and called his son before him. The king slid the mailed glove over his son's hands. The lobstered gauntlet went over it. When that was done, his son knelt before him again. Rhaegar unsheathed Blackfyre and brought it down gently over one of Aegon's armour clad shoulder. He dabbed the edge of the valyrian steel sword on his other shoulder as well. When it was done the king gave his sword back to Ser Gerold beside him and helped his son back to his feet. Rhaegar hugged Aegon and kissed his cheeks. His son gave a grim nod and stepped aside.

Richard walked to stand in front of him and took his son's place. Rhaegar repeated the same actions for him as well. When he was done, he raised Richard up and bid him to move. Then it was time for his Small council and the kingsguard to receive his blessings. When all seven of the white knights were dubbed and armed by him for battle, Rhaegar shoved Blackfyre back into its sheath.

"Let the cups be filled!" Rhaegar proclaimed, when the gods had been given their due. His cupbearer poured a whole flagon of dark Arbor red into his silver chalice. The king lifted it before him. "Tonight we drink for victory! For Victory!"

"Victory!" the hall shouted back at him. "Victory! Victory! King's Landing!" A thousand cups rang together, and the farewell feast was well and truly begun. Rhaegar Targaryen drank with the rest, emptying his cup on that first toast and sat at his central place on the high dais between the Hand of the King, Lord Jon Connington and the Warden of the South Lord Mace Tyrell. Mace Tyrell was mostly interested in the food and the jests made by Aurane Waters, while Jon continued to inquire about the war to the eunuch Varys.

Lyanna was seated at the far end of the high table. She did not gown herself fitting for a royal feast, but chose a plain grey gown instead. The garb brought out the plainness of her beauty. For the first time in years, Rhaegar found himself thinking of Elia. Beautiful, graceful and kind to a fault. He wondered if she would ever vex him like Lyanna does nowadays. Somehow he think not. They both cared for each other enough to not vex or shame anyone in public.

The cooks started to bring in the food for the feast. Of food there was plenty. While singers sang and tumblers tumbled, they began with pears poached in wine, and went on to tiny savory fish rolled in salt and cooked crisp, and capons stuffed with onions and mushrooms. There were great loaves of brown bread, mounds of turnips and sweetcorn and pease, immense hams and roast geese and trenchers dripping full of venison stewed with beer and barley. For the sweet, the servants brought down trays of pastries from his castle kitchens, cream swans and spun-sugar unicorns, lemon cakes cut in a dozen shapes, spiced honey biscuits and blackberry tarts, apple crisps and wheels of buttery cheese.

The king was not in a festive mood to enjoy the rich foods, but it never stopped his knights from enjoying the heavy feast. Rhaegar ate sparingly, while he watched his son who would lead his troops to battle on the morrow. Aegon sat with his young friends on his either side and was deeply engaged in some talks with the men he would lead, men older enough to be his father, seasoned men who has seen several battles. Though when his son said something they all laughed. The men respects him naturally, he thought, and it is a good thing.

From time to time, Aegon would slip from his table to his betrothed, to share some shy talks and kisses. His son would feed Arianne some choice morsel off the point of his dagger, or lean over to plant the lightest of kisses on her cheek. Aegon played the perfect prince tonight.

Some of the knights were less moderate. They drank too much and boasted too loudly. Two young Crownlander knights disputed heatedly about who would be first to come into grips with the Dragonslayer. Lord Merryweather dandled a serving girl on his lap, nuzzling at her neck while one hand went exploring down her bodice. Aegon swore to all the men in the hall to scour the Seven Kingdoms of all the traitors and restore peace. While Richard told his wish of fighting Lord Robert Baratheon in single combat. Another young knight vowed to slay Stark's direwolf and gift the pelt to Princess Arianne as a gift to the future queen.

In the entirety of the hall, only his wife did not join the merriment. "They are all so young," she said when he took his seat beside her.

It was true. Their son could not have reached his second name day when he had to march against Ned Stark for the first time. Few of the others were little bit older. They had been babes during the Sack of King's Landing, and no more than boys when Eddard Stark raised his banners in rebellion. They are still unblooded, Rhaegar thought as he watched Lord Jaime Rykker goad Ser Quinton Chelsted into juggling a brace of daggers. It is all a game to them still, a tourney writ large, and all they see is the chance for glory and honor and spoils. They are boys drunk on song and story, and like all boys, they think themselves immortal.

"War will make them old," Rhaegar said, "as it always does."

"I pity them," said Lyanna.

"Why?" Rhaegar asked his wife. "Look at them. They're young and strong, full of life and laughter. And lust, aye, more lust than they know what to do with. There will be many a bastard bred this night, I promise you. Why pity?"

"Because it will not last," Lyanna answered, sadly. "Because they are the knights of summer, and winter is coming."

* * *

 _ **Author Notes:**_ _**So I have to leave this review here as a reply to a guest comment I'd received a few chapters back regarding Ashara being alive in King's Landing. I have nothing to say about the criticism of the person who left the comment since everyone has their own opinions but what doesn't sit well with me is the wrong example given by the person to cement his claim. The wrong eg is that: the person blatantly said that my plot of keeping Ashara alive makes no sense since I'd already mentioned that both Ned and Ashara's bodies were seen by people. However this is not the truth as you can clearly see that I have never ever mentioned something like that in my story. If you want you can read and see if I'd ever written a line backing the reviewer claim. In my defence I can say that I'd only mentioned in my story that the bodies of Ned and Ashara and Arthur were never seen by anyone. Check out Andrew's talk with Maester Walys in the crypts. Walys says that they never got the bodies back. So I have only one thing to say about it, you have your right to express your views but at least just read my story before you criticize it.**_

 _ **Thank you. I hope the formatting hasn't messed up this time. And please leave a review.**_


	65. Chapter 65

**_Andrew_**

They heard the Green Fork before they saw it, an endless susurrus, like the growl of some great beast. The river was a boiling torrent, half again as wide as it had been the last time he saw it, almost a decade before, when his father had been the King in the North and took his heir and queen south to meet his southern friends and family. King Eddard had needed Lord Walder and his bridge then, and Andrew needs them even more now. His heart was full of the past as he watched the fresh green waters swirl past. It reminded him the green eyes of Joy Hill, though hers had never been fierce like the river. Her eyes had been two green pools, still and calm. He had drowned and lost in them more often than not.

The green waters of the Green Fork was raging before him. There is no way we will ford this, nor swim across, and it could be a moon's turn before these waters fall again.

There has been talks of fighting in the Riverlands and the Stormlands lately and he could be very well losing allies as they were waiting for the rainfall to stop and the rivers to quiet.

Andrew rode at the front of the column, beneath the flapping white banner of Winterfell. His father had taught him enough to treat all of his men as equals. There was always a man with King Eddard at the high table of Winterfell while he still ruled the north. The people would differ everyday, going from high lords to guards walking the walls. Following his father, each day Andrew would ask one of his lords to join him, so they might confer as they marched; he honored every man in turn, showing no favorites, listening as his lord father had listened, weighing the words of one against the other. Today it was Lord Robett Glover's turn to ride with him.

Andrew had sent Lord Beric and his brotherhood with a hundred picked men and a hundred swift horses to race ahead of them and to screen their movements and scout the way. The reports Lord Beric's riders brought back did little to reassure him. The Tyrell host under Ser Garlan was still many days to the south . . . but Walder Frey, Lord of the Crossing, had assembled a force of near four thousand men at his castles on the Green Fork.

He could not say if the old man had gathered his men to oppose him or to fend off the reachmen who were troubling his liege lord and the fellow river lords. Lord Hoster had already called his banners; by rights, Lord Frey should have gone to join the Tully host at Riverrun, yet here he sat.

"Four thousand men," Lord Robett repeated, perplexed at the thought. "Lord Frey cannot hope to fight the Targaryens by himself. Surely he means to join his power to ours."

Does he? Andrew wondered. Both his father and mother never placed any trust in Lord Walder. They trusted him as much as anyone would trust a sellsword. Andrew still remembered meeting Lord Walder for the first time. For the brief time they had spent in the halls of Lord Frey, he had been mostly interested in the gold and silver his father had brought with them. They hadn't even stayed in the comfort of his castle, opting to make camp away from the sight of the Twins. He should expect nothing of Walder Frey, then he might never be surprised.

The vanguard spread out behind him, a slow-moving forest of lances and banners and spears.

"He's Lord Hoster's bannerman," Andrew said. "Yet I see him sitting in his castle despite his overlord's call."

"Your lord father always treated the man with caution, my lord," Lord Glover said.

Andrew nodded. Somehow he remembered his mother's words then, "Some men take their oaths more seriously than others, Andrew. When Lord Arryn denied to hand over the heads of your father and Lord Robert to the Mad King and rose in rebellion there were still some lords of the Vale who were loyal to the king. Loyalty of the people is not bought in one day, love. It is earned. One day you might have to earn it for yourself. Then know well that love is always better than fear. Let your enemies fear you but not your people."

"Do you think Frey means to betray us to the Targaryens, Your Grace?" Robett Glover asked gravely.

Andrew sighed. "I don't know, we will see soon enough. Anyways, we must have the Twins," Andrew said knowingly. "There is no other way across the river. And we don't have enough time to wait for the rains to stop and rivers to calm. What's bothering me is that Walder Frey knows that, you can be sure of that. I don't know what he is going to ask us in return for the passage."

That night they made camp on the southern edge of the bogs, halfway between the kingsroad and the river. It was there his cousin brought them further word from the lightning lord. "Lord Beric says to tell you he's crossed swords with the Tyrells. There are a dozen scouts who won't be reporting back to Ser Garlan anytime soon. Or ever." He said. "Ser Dickon Tarly commands their outriders, and he's pulling back south, burning as he goes. He knows where we are, more or less, but the lightning lord vows he will not know when we cross."

"Unless Lord Frey tells him," Lord Robett said.

"We don't have to worry about that, my lord," Edric said. "Lord Beric has placed his best bowmen around the Twins, day and night, with orders to bring down any raven they see leaving the battlements."

That was deftly done, thought Andrew. I want no birds bringing word of my movements to the Targaryens.

"Its done wisely," Theo Wull said. "The lesser they know about us the better."

"What have the Freys been doing while the Targaryens burn their fields and plunder their holdfasts?" Andrew asked.

"There's been some fighting between Ser Dickon's men and Lord Walder's," Edric answered. "Not a day's ride from here, we found two Tyrell scouts feeding the crows where the Freys had strung them up. Most of Lord Walder's strength remains massed at the Twins, though."

"That bears Walder Frey's seal beyond a doubt," Greatjon Umber snarled. "He is a craven, Your Grace. Your father knew as much. He will hold back, wait, watch, take no risk unless forced to it.

"If he's been fighting the Tyrells, perhaps he does mean to hold to his vows to House Tully," Andrew said.

Lord Umber was less encouraged. "He has not yet taken the field against the dragons. Its fear that's keeping him from declaring open battle against Rhaegar."

Andrew turned back to his cousin. "Has Lord Beric found any other way across the Green Fork?"

Edric shook his head sadly. "The river's running high and fast. Lord Beric and Thoros says it can't be forded, not this far north."

"I must have that crossing!" Andrew declared, fuming. Had he still been Andrew Snow, he might have swam across the raging river despite the risk. "Our horses might be able to swim the river, I suppose, but not with armored men on their backs. We'd need to build rafts to pole our steel across, helms and mail and lances, and we don't have the trees for that. Or the time. The Tyrells are dangerously close and Rhaegar might be marching north . . . " He balled his hand into a fist.

"Lord Frey would be a fool to try and bar our way," Smalljon Umber said with his customary easy confidence. "We have five times his numbers. You can take the Twins if you need to, Your Grace."

"Not easily," Roose Bolton warned them, "and not in time. While you were mounting your siege, Ser Garlan would bring up his huge host and assault you from the rear."

Andrew glanced from Lord Bolton to Smalljon Umber, searching for an answer and finding none. For a moment the crown on his head felt a little heavy on his head. He still found the weight of the sword in his hand more welcoming than the weight of his father's crown atop his brow. What would my lord father do? he asked himself. Find a way across, a voice seemed to tell him from the inside, a voice which sounded very much like his father's. Whatever it takes. Find a way.

The next morning it was Lord Beric Dondarrion himself who rode back to them. He had put aside the heavy plate and helm he'd worn which marked him as the lightning lord for the lighter leather-and-mail of an outrider, but his faded black and purple cloak still covered his shoulders.

Lord Beric's face was grave as he swung down off his horse. "There has been a battle at Tumbler Falls in the Blackwater Rush near Stoney Sept," he said, his mouth grim. "We had it from a Tarly outrider we took captive. Less than a fortnight past, they fought the battle in the banks of the Rush by the Roseroad. Lord Hoster had sent Lord Vance and Lord Piper to hold the Rush and block the Roseroad to the north, but Ser Garlan Tyrell descended on them and put them to flight. Lord Vance was slain by Ser Garlan himself. Lord Piper has fallen back to join Lord Tully and his other bannermen at Riverrun, with Ser Garlan Tyrell on his heels. That's not the worst of it, though. After the battle was done, the Tyrell host has split into two, with Ser Garlan racing north to lead the invasion of Riverlands while the second Tyrell army under the command of Lord Randyll Tarly and Lord Mathis Rowan turned south to meet Lord Robert and the power of Storm's End. They have planned to not to let us join together."

"Any word on King's Landing?" Andrew asked.

"Our captive says that Rhaegar has massed a great host in the Red Keep," Lord Beric replied. "He says that it will only be a matter of time before the king come for us with his dragons."

The news warmed his heart more than he had thought it would be. It was the best thing he has heard in the last few weeks. All the fighting and deaths in his life lead to only one thing. His sword against Rhaegar Targaryen's sword. His life against Rhaegar's. Andrew was glad that was coming to happen soon enough.

"How did the large host of the Reachmen got up north so quickly?" asked Lord William Dustin.

"Garlan Tyrell brought his army in barges and cogs by the river," Lord Beric said. "Tyrell is quickly riding for Riverrun to meet Lord Hoster and the riverlords."

Andrew looked around at his lords. "We must get across this accursed river if we're to have any hope of helping them in time."

"That will not be easily done," the lightning lord cautioned. "Lord Frey has pulled his whole strength back inside his castles, and his gates are closed and barred."

"Damn the man," Andrew swore. If only the crown was not there upon his head, he could've infiltrated the castle and opened the gates for his men. He had scaled the walls of buildings a dozen times bigger than the Twins. Yet a king is no assassin to do that.

"There must be someway to make him open the gates for us," Ned Dayne said.

Perhaps there might actually be, Andrew thought. He remembered his father's words. "A lord must learn that sometimes words can accomplish what swords cannot, Andrew," his father had told him when his mother complained his father about Andrew's lack of interest in the maester's lessons in favour for training sessions with Ser Rodrik.

He smiled knowingly. Now he knew how to deal with the Freys. "I know how to deal with the Freys."

His bannermen looked confused. Andrew continued. "The Freys have held the crossing for six hundred years, and for six hundred years they have never failed to exact their toll. They even made it sure to get enough gold from my father."

"What toll? What does he want?" Lord Umber asked.

Andrew smiled. "That is what we must discover."

It was near midday when their vanguard came in sight of the Twins, where the Lords of the Crossing had their seat. The rainfall was more frequent as they moved further south into the Riverlands and the downpour was the heaviest he had come across during the entire journey.

The Green Fork ran swift and deep here, but the Freys had spanned it many centuries past and grown rich off the coin men paid them to cross. Their bridge was a massive arch of smooth grey rock, wide enough for two wagons to pass abreast; the Water Tower rose from the center of the span, commanding both road and river with its arrow slits, murder holes, and portcullises. It had taken the Freys three generations to complete their bridge; when they were done they'd thrown up stout timber keeps on either bank, so no one might cross without their leave.

The timber had long since given way to stone. The Twins-two squat, ugly, formidable castles, identical in every respect, with the bridge arching between-had guarded the crossing for centuries. High curtain walls, deep moats, and heavy oak-and-iron gates protected the approaches, the bridge footings rose from within stout inner keeps, there was a barbican and portcullis on either bank, and the Water Tower defended the span itself.

One glance was sufficient to tell Andrew that the castle would not be taken by storm. The battlements bristled with spears and swords and scorpions, there was an archer at every crenel and arrow slit, the drawbridge was up, the portcullis down, the gates closed and barred.

The Greatjon began to curse and swear as soon as he saw what awaited them. Lord Rickard Karstark glowered in silence. "That cannot be assaulted, my lords," Roose Bolton announced.

"Nor can we take it by siege, without an army on the far bank to invest the other castle," Helman Tallhart said gloomily. Across the deep-running green waters, the western twin stood like a reflection of its eastern brother. "Even if we had the time. Which, to be sure, we do not."

As his northern lords studied the castle, a sally port opened, a plank bridge slid across the moat, and a dozen knights rode forth to confront them, led by four of Lord Walder's many sons. Their banner bore twin towers, dark blue on a field of pale silver-grey. Ser Stevron Frey, Lord Walder's heir, spoke for them. The Freys all looked like weasels; Ser Stevron, past sixty with grandchildren of his own, looked like an especially old and tired weasel, yet he was polite enough. "My lord father has sent me to greet you, and inquire as to who leads this mighty host."

"I do." Andrew spurred his horse forward. He was in his jacket, with the long leather coat clasped over and Ghost padding by his side.

The old knight looked at him with a faint flicker of amusement in his watery grey eyes, though his gelding whickered uneasily and sidled away from the direwolf. "Forgive me, my lord, but you do resemble your father. My lord father would be most honored if you would share meat and mead with him in the castle and explain your purpose here."

His words crashed among the lords bannermen like a great stone from a catapult. Not one of them approved. They cursed, argued, shouted down each other.

"You must not do this, my lord," Galbart Glover pleaded with him. "Lord Walder is not to be trusted."

Roose Bolton nodded. "Go in there alone and you're his captive. He can sell you to the Targaryens, throw you in a dungeon, or slit your throat, as he likes."

"If he wants to talk to us, let him open his gates, and we will all share his meat and mead," declared Ser Wendel Manderly.

"Or let him come out and treat with His Grace here, in plain sight of his men and ours," suggested his brother, Ser Wylis.

Andrew shared all their doubts, but he had only to glance at Ser Stevron to see that he was not pleased by what he was hearing. A few more words and the chance would be lost. He had to act with his words now, and quickly. "I will go," he said at last.

"Your Grace?" The Greatjon furrowed his brow.

"My king, I beg you to reconsider," Robett Glover said.

"No," Andrew said. "I have made my decision. I'll go and explain our purpose in being here to Lord Frey."

"Then let me come with you, Your Grace," the Greatjon offered. The others started to ask the same as well.  
"I trust you all with my life," Andrew told them. "But it is disrespecting the faith of our good Lord Frey if we don't honour his noble invitation." He lied wisely. It will be easier for him to escape from the castle should Lord Frey tries to capture him for the Targaryens if he was alone. Andrew was ready to play the old lord's game in his terms. He did not come all the way out here to sit down meekly in some damn dungeon. Should Frey betray me for some sacks of Targaryen gold, I'll pull down the Twins all around him.

"Ghost, with me," Andrew called. The direwolf shook the wetness off his thick white fur and came to his side. He spurred his horse forward and did not look back. Lord Walder's sons and envoys fell in around him.

The gatehouse towers emerged from the rain like ghosts, hazy grey apparitions that grew more solid the closer they rode. The Frey stronghold was not one castle but two; mirror images in wet stone standing on opposite sides of the water, linked by a great arched bridge. From the center of its span rose the Water Tower, the river running straight and swift below. Channels had been cut from the banks, to form moats that made each twin an island. The rains had turned the moats to shallow lakes.

Across the turbulent waters, Andrew could see several thousand men encamped around the western castle, their banners hanging like so many drowned cats from the lances outside their tents. The rain made it impossible to distinguish colors and devices. Most were grey, it seemed to him, though beneath such skies the whole world seemed grey. The greyness reminded him of Braavos and its fogs.

He must tread lightly here, as mother would urge his father.

Four Freys rode out from the eastern gatehouse, wrapped in heavy cloaks of thick grey wool. Andrew recognized none of them. The four of them were likely Lord Walder's own sons or grandsons. Ser Stevron confirmed as much. "Ryman, the first rider, is my son. Edwyn is eldest riding next to my son. The tall man with the beard on the black palfrey is Black Walder. Petyr is on the bay. Petyr Pimple, his brothers call him." Andrew looked at them carefully. Ser Ryman, son of Ser Stevron, Lord Walder's firstborn. When his father dies, Ryman will be the heir to the Twins but it seemed as if Ser Ryman could already have some grandsons of his own. The face he saw beneath his hood was fleshy, broad, and stupid.

Edwyn Frey was a pale slender man with the constipated look. Black Walder was a wiry man with a cruel face. Petyr was the lad with the unfortunate face. He could have only been a year or two older than Andrew himself. Andrew had to take only one look at his face to understand why he was called Petyr Pimple.

They halted to let their hosts come to them. Andrew's banner drooped on its staff, and the steady sound of rainfall mingled with the rush of the swollen Green Fork on their right. Ghost edged forward, tail stiff, watching through slitted eyes of red blood. When the Freys were a half-dozen yards away Andrew heard him growl, a deep rumble that seemed almost one with rush of the river.

There was more trouble at the gatehouse. Ghost balked in the middle of the drawbridge, shook the rain off, and howled at the portcullis. Andrew whistled impatiently. "Ghost. What is it? Ghost, to me." But the direwolf only bared his teeth. He does not like this place, Andrew thought. He dismounted from his horse and knelt beside Ghost to speak softly to the wolf. At last he did consent to pass beneath the portcullis. By then Lame Lothar and Walder Rivers had come up. "It's the sound of the water he fears," Rivers said. "Beasts know to avoid the river in flood."

"A dry kennel and a leg of mutton will see him right again," said Lothar cheerfully. "Shall I summon our master of hounds?"

"He's a direwolf, not a dog," Andrew told them, "and he stays with me."

The Lord of the Crossing welcomed Andrew in the great hall of the east castle, surrounded by twenty-one living sons, thirty-six grandsons, nineteen great-grandsons, and numerous daughters, granddaughters, bastards, and grandbastards. It is a bloody army here, Andrew thought as he looked at the people crowding around him.

Lord Walder was ninety, a wizened pink weasel with a bald spotted head, too gouty to stand unassisted. His wife, a pale frail girl of sixteen years, walked beside his litter when they carried him in. Andrew could clearly remember that the girl wasn't the same one he had seen with Lord Walder years before. He wondered how many wives Lord Frey has had in his entire life to build up such a formidable army of sons.

"It is a great pleasure to see you again after so many years, my lord," Andrew said.

The old man squinted at him suspiciously. "Is it? I doubt that. Your father was the same. Spare me the sweet words your mother fed you along with her sweet milk. I am too old but not stupid. Why are you here?"

Andrew had been a babe at his mother's hip the last time he had visited the Twins, but even then Lord Walder had been irascible, sharp of tongue, and blunt of manner. Age had made him worse than ever, it would seem. He would need to choose his words with care, and do his best to take no offense from his.

"Father," Ser Stevron said reproachfully, "you forget yourself. Lord Stark is here at your invitation."

"Did I ask you? You are not Lord Frey yet, not until I die. Do I look dead? I'll hear no instructions from you."

"This is no way to speak in front of our royal guest, Father," one of his younger sons said.

"Now my bastards presume to teach me courtesy," Lord Walder complained. "I'll speak any way I like, damn you. I've had four kings to guest in my life, and queens as well, including his parents, do you think I require lessons from the likes of you, Ryger?" He dismissed the red-faced youth with a flick of his fingers and gestured to two of his other sons. "Danwell, Whalen, help me to my chair."

They shifted Lord Walder from his litter and carried him to the high seat of the Freys, a tall chair of black oak whose back was carved in the shape of two towers linked by a bridge. His young wife crept up timidly and covered his legs with a blanket. When he was settled, the old man bowed forward. "You will forgive me if I do not kneel, I know. My legs no longer work as they did." His mouth split in a toothless smile as he eyed his crown. "Some would say it's a poor king who crowns himself with bronze, Your Grace."

"Bronze and iron are stronger than gold and silver," Andrew answered. "The old Kings of Winter wore it with pride, so did my father and so will I."

"Sire," Lord Walder said, "Why are you here?"

"To ask you to open your gates, my lord," Andrew replied politely. "My army and bannermen are most anxious to cross the river and be on our way."

"To Riverrun?" He sniggered. "Oh, I have gotten the letters as well."

"To Riverrun," Andrew confirmed. He saw no reason to deny it. "Where I might have expected to find you, my lord. You are still Lord Hoster's bannerman, are you not? Have you not heard of the fighting in the Riverlands."

"Heh," said Lord Walder, a noise halfway between a laugh and a grunt. "I called my swords, yes I did, here they are, you saw them on the walls. It was my intent to march as soon as all my strength was assembled. Well, to send my sons. I am well past marching myself." He looked around for likely confirmation and pointed to a tall, stooped man of fifty years. "Tell His Grace, Jared. Tell him that was my intent."

"It was, Your Grace," said the Jared Frey. "On my honor."

"My sons tell me that the Tullys are already on their heels," He leaned back against his cushions and scowled at him, as if challenging him to dispute his version of events. "I am told Mace Tyrell's son went through them like an axe through ripe cheese. Why should my boys hurry south to die? All those who did go south are running north again. Do you not remember what happened to your royal family, Your Grace?"

Ghost bared his teeth at the mention of his family. Andrew rubbed the white wolf behind the ear and wondered how the old man would feel if he set Ghost upon him and sent him running south on his own two legs, but he had only little time to open the bridge. Words of anger or threats will not help him here. Calmly, he said, "I remember that, my lord. It is for that reason I have to go south."

"Heh, all the more like your father," Lord Frey smiled a toothless smile. "I need to talk with you." The spotted pink head snapped around. "What are you all looking at?" he shouted at his kin. "Get out of here. I want to speak to his grace in private. Go, all of you, find something useful to do. Yes, you too, woman. Out, out, out." As his sons and grandsons and daughters and bastards and nieces and nephews streamed from the hall, he leaned close to Andrew and confessed, "They're all waiting for me to die. Stevron's been waiting for forty years, but I keep disappointing him. Heh. Why should I die just so he can be a lord? I ask you. I won't do it."

"I hope you haven't called me here to discuss about how long we would live."

"That would be nice, to be sure. Oh, to be sure. Though I believe you Starks don't think much about life."

No, he thought. I've never thought of life until I met Joy and never have thought about it since I lost her. "Maybe that's why I want to rush south," Andrew told him.

"Heh, that's blunt. So I get it that you want to cross." Lord Frey leaned forward. "Why should I let you?"

"I have gold," Andrew answered.

Lord Frey cackled. "I have no need for your gold. I know that the gold your father paid me is still somewhere in my chests." He pushed himself back in his chair and crossed his arms, smirking. "You and your fourty thousand men will soon be charred corpses when the king descends upon you from King's Landing. You have been named as a traitor to the realm and anyone who might be joining you will be treated as such. Even your father, as great as he was still lost his life in the south. I've sworn oaths to House Targaryen not to your father, it seems to me. Rhaegar's the king now, and that makes you and your allies and all those fools out there no better than rebels like your father. If I had the sense the gods gave a fish, I'd help the Targaryens burn you all. Why should I help you and be branded as a traitor to the realm?"

"You are right," Andrew admitted. "We might lose. We might actually be riding forth to our deaths. But what if we prevailed in the end."

He bobbed his head side to side, weighing his words. "Ah, Dragonslayer, this is not a single castle we are talking about."

"I know," Andrew told him. "Still nothing in this world is certain, my lord. Nothing but winter alone, and Winter is coming."

Lord Walder snorted with disdain. "Heh, your fancy words. But those words mean very little here. I have seen more winters than your entire family combined!" He cackled. "I have been Lord Frey since your father's grandfather was Lord Stark and I've outlived all of them to your father."

"I have no intention of dying too soon like you think I will," Andrew said calmly.

Lord Walder jabbed a bony finger at his face. "You're impudent like your father. Your family has always pissed on me, you know it's true. Years ago, your family came to my castle to cross the river. I opened my gates for him despite his feud with the Targaryen king. While he was here, I suggested a match between you and my daughter. Why not? I had a daughter in mind, sweet girl, a little older than you for you were still a red faced babe at your mother's teats, but if your father did not find her perfect, I had others he might have had found perfect for you, young ones, pretty ones, virgins, widows, whatever he wanted. No, King Eddard would not have any of them. Sweet words he gave me, excuses, but what I wanted was to get rid of a daughter. When I provided him the hospitality of my castle, he would not stay. My bed was too old and cold for your father to lay his queen down and fuck her.

"And your mother, pretty as she was, her words were the sweetest of lies. She told me that you were promised to someone else. Queen Ashara the Benevolent told no to me. Oh, but I did see her benevolence in a way. She promised me that she would take two of my grandsons as wards to your royal castle Winterfell. Even still she wouldn't take them to the south with you. Why, I should have asked her then. Your father had southron friends; the great lords Arryn, Baratheon, Tully and I believe she was ashamed to call Lord Frey as their friend to the likes of them. At least your mother offered to take my grandsons as wards, but your aunt, the queen, she is full of bad, I promise you. When I proposed the same thing to her and her husband she told me that she had no time for my grandsons or any wards for that matter. Are my grandsons unworthy to be seen at the king's court? They are sweet boys, quiet and mannerly. Walder is Merrett's son, named after me, and the other one . . . heh, I don't recall . . . he might have been another Walder, they're always naming them Walder so I'll favor them, but his father . . . which one was his father now?" His face wrinkled up. "Well, never mind. Years after your parents never came back to hold their promise to me, after Rhaegar made his six kingdoms as seven again, I went to his city to see my sons ride in the tourney for the prince's nameday. Stevron and Jared are too old for the lists now, but Danwell and Hosteen rode, Perwyn as well, and a couple of my bastards tried the melee. If I'd known how they'd shame me, I would never have troubled myself to make the journey. Why did I need to ride all that way to see Hosteen knocked off his horse by that Tyrell whelp? I ask you. The boy's half his age, Ser Daisy they call him, something like that. And Danwell was unhorsed by the Targaryen boy you slew in Winterfell. Some days I wonder if those two are truly mine. My third wife was a Crakehall, all of the Crakehall women are sluts. Well, never mind about that, she died even before your mother was born, what do you care?

"I was speaking of your aunt. I proposed that the king and queen foster my grandsons but they wouldn't have Walder, or the other one, and I blame your aunt for that. She didn't even know how to behave like a highborn and stormed off without a word of regrets after knocking down half the plates on the table." Lord Walder slumped against his chair. "Stark, Targaryen, Baratheon, Lannister, Arryn, Tully, Martell, none of you have been friends of mine. Why should I help any of you?"

Andrew smiled knowing what the old man wanted. "I will honour the promise my mother made to you," he said at last. "I will take your sons as royal wards to Winterfell. Had I not been promised to someone else, I would have married your daughter like you wanted."

"Heh, that wasn't hard now, was it?" Lord Walder smiled. "And I need you to take one of my sons for your personal squire. I would like to see him knighted, in good time. "

"Squire?" Andrew asked confused. "I am no knight."

"Damn your excuses," Lord Frey said. "I've heard of your skills, Dragonslayer. You know how to swing a sword. That's enough to keep a squire."

"Very well, then," Andrew said. "Ask your son to join me on the way out. If that's all . . ."

"And," Walder Frey started off again. "I need a marriage pact to join our houses in the future."

"Well, you have it," Andrew said at once. He has no idea that it might never happen whilst he lives, Andrew thought as he saw Lord Frey grinning.

"So, its done," the Lord of the Crossing said. "My castle is yours, sire and so are my men. I mean to keep back four hundred men to hold the Twins for you."

"Take five hundred of my own men as well, my lord," Andrew told him. "Bolster the castle and let no one cross the river." And should I ever find out that you need help to keep faith, they will make sure to teach you a lesson.

A swollen red sun hung low against the western hills when the gates of the castle opened. The drawbridge creaked down, the portcullis winched up, and Andrew Stark rode forth to rejoin his lords bannermen. Ghost followed him closely. Behind him came Ser Jared Frey, Ser Hosteen Frey, Ser Danwell Frey, and Lord Walder's bastard son Ronel Rivers, leading a long column of pikemen, rank on rank of shuffling men in blue steel ringmail and silvery grey cloaks. His new squire Olyvar Frey held his direwolf banner beside him.

His bannermen galloped out to meet him. "Lord Walder will grant us our crossing. He has pledged his swords to me." Andrew looked around his lords and found Ser Helman Tallhart. "Ser Helman," he beckoned him forward. Ser Helman moved forward and bowed his head. "Choose five hundred picked men, a mixed force of archers and swordsmen. I'm leaving a garrison here at the Twins to hold the crossing and you're in command of it."

"As you say, Your Grace," Ser Helman answered. "I'll not fail you."

Andrew gazed at the ranks of pikemen forming into their formation behind them. "Get the men ready to move," he told his lords.

They crossed at evenfall as a horned moon floated upon the river. The double column wound its way through the gate of the eastern twin like a great steel snake, slithering across the courtyard, into the keep and over the bridge, to issue forth once more from the second castle on the west bank.

Andrew rode at the head of the serpent, with Ghost and his cousin Ned, his new squire and Ser Stevron Frey. Behind followed nine tenths of their horse; knights, lancers, freeriders, and mounted bowmen. After them came the larger part of the northern host, pikes and archers and great masses of men-at-arms on foot . It took hours for them all to cross. Afterward, Andrew would remember the clatter of countless hooves on the drawbridge, the sight of Lord Walder Frey in his litter watching them pass, the glitter of eyes peering down through the slats of the murder holes in the ceiling as they rode through the Water Tower.

As he brought the men south, he could only think of one thing; the quest which brought him here, the quest for justice, and now it begins.


	66. Chapter 66

All along the Misty Wood surrounding the northern Stormlands and for leagues around the Wendwater rose great pillars of evergreen tree trunks covered in green moss, standing strong and unmovable from the ancient days of the Children of the Forest and their clash with Durran Godsgrief. Holdfasts had grown up about the forest. A few had flowered into castles where men still ruled as they had for thousands of years.

Conflicts between the First Men and the children arose as the First Men made their settlements in the forest. The children tolerated the buildings of First Men and villages along the forest's streams, but conflict broke out over the First Men's use of timber.

Durran Godsgrief of Storm's End claimed the forest for the First Men, leading to generations of warfare between House Durrandon and the children. The woods witch known as the Green Queen held the forest for almost a generation during the reign of King Durwald I Durrandon which was later brought back under the rule of Storm's End.

Here in the rainwood the trees ruled, it is said by the people of Stormlands, and Argella had only to take one look around her to see the truth of it. The castles oft seem as if they have grown from the earth instead of being built. And the knights and lords of the rainwood have roots as deep as the trees that shelter them, and have oft proved themselves steadfast in battle, strong and stubborn and immovable.

They had come across dozens of holdfasts and villages on their way north. The banners flapping from

the all of the towns' stout wooden walls still displayed the crowned

stag of House Baratheon, which showed no opposition for their huge host as they passed through the villages and towns. Ella pitied them. Should the rebellion her soon-to-be husband started be put down, it would go ill for them just for the single reason of siding with her family. Maester Cresson had taught her enough to know that, "The dragon does not know how to forgive or forget." That was another lesson that the old maester had taken pains to teach her as she wouldn't learn her lessons with earnest. Riding alone in the middle of the forest, Argella found that she missed the old man. The constant presence of Maester Cressen in her life made the old maester as the grandfather she lacked. He might have told her more about the Misty Wood if he were with her here.

The army had no trouble moving forward each day, though the autumn gales and rains were delaying their progress somewhat a little. The going was much slower here than it had been near Storm's End.

Instead of proper roads, they rode down crookback slashes

that snaked this way and that, through clefts in huge moss covered rocks and down deep ravines choked with blackberry brambles. Sometimes the track petered out entirely, sinking

into bogs or vanishing amongst the ferns, leaving her father and his army to find another way amongst the silent trees. The rain still fell, soft and steady. The sound of moisture

dripping off the leaves was all around them, and every mile or so the music of another little waterfall would call to them.

Near Storm's End they had often travelled after dark, when the moonlight turned the nearby blue sea to silver, but the rainwood was too full of bogs, ravines, and sinkholes, and black as pitch beneath the trees,

where the moon was just a memory.

Argella would have favored the journey north by ships, just as they had made for Riverrun last year for Gendry's marriage to Alyssa Arryn. The thought of her goodsister brought a smile to her face. Gendry bid farewell to his young wife twice. Once in the Sept before the Warrior, in sight of gods and men. The second time beneath the portcullis, where Lady Alyssa sent him forth with a long embrace and a longer kiss. It gave her enough reason to mock him, her lovesick brother.

The journey north by ship would've been quicker... and deadlier. She knew that Shipbreaker Bay can be perilous even on a fair summer's day. And during this time of the year with all the storms and waves it would be twice as deadly. The safer way to the Riverlands is by overland.

Ella has always dreamed of riding for battle with an army. Despite the wish being fulfilled she found it extremely boring. There was nothing interesting for her to do there. Her father was always busy, holding his war council with her brothers and her uncles. As always, Ella was not allowed. Her mother had made sure of that. Even Joffrey was allowed. That thought irked her beyond any reason. Everyone knew she was better than him at everything, older and better. Argella could batter him around the yard even without receiving the necessary skills and training from Ser Gawen Wylde, the master-at-arms of Storm's End, like Joffrey did. Still he was allowed to sit in the war council and she wasn't. She was more than wise to go and spend time with her mother. Somehow she was sure that Lady Cersei would be fuming about her husband for bringing her out here. Uncle Renly would sometime join her during supper, whenever he could step away from her father's eyes.

Often times Argella would slip away from the party, alone on her horse, to explore the massive forest around her. It was easy to get away from the large host around her without anyone noticing and somehow her instincts had always brought her back before someone raised the alarm that she's gone missing.

The wood was full of caves as well, which made for excellent adventures. The first cave she explored gave nothing but shelter, a place to get out of the wet. She had luck with some other days, finding a beautiful blue mushroom in a cave one day and a majestic white stag the size of an ox the other. The stag had come out of his place despite the rain to graze. Argella had almost killed the beautiful beast that day as she nocked the arrow, drew her bowstring and waited for the right time to loose. The rain was in her face and her bowstring wet which made it hard to hit the target for any skilled archer, but Ella knew she was better. She might have loosened the arrow and brought the beautiful animal down. She has been to hunting with her father and brothers many a times before. But as she looked at the stag, grazing gently, going on with his work she lowered her bow. When she put the bow down and slowly reached the stag, he let her pet him as if he was a lamb. Ella fed him berries and leaves from her own hands and when she had finally left him in his place and returned to hers she had been happier than ever.

By midmorning a light rain began to fall, as they were making their way north through a land of vast green fields and little villages. As yet, they had seen no signs of fighting, but Ella knew that they might encounter anyone along the rutted road anytime. Her father had sent a scouting party under the command of her uncle Renly to make sure that they are not ambushed on the road north.

Further north, the fields gave way to rolling hills and thick groves of old forest, the road dwindled to a track, and villages became less common.

Dusk found them on the northern fringes of the rainwood, a wetgreen world where brooks and rivers ran through dark forests and the ground was made of mud and rotting leaves. Huge willows grew along the watercourses, larger than any that Argella had ever seen, their great trunks as gnarled and twisted as an old man's face and festooned with beards of silvery moss.

Trees pressed close on every side, shutting out the sun; hemlock and red cedars, white oaks, soldier pines

that stood as tall and straight as towers, colossal sentinels, bigleaf maples, redwoods, wormtrees, even here and there a wild weirwood. Underneath their tangled branches ferns and flowers grew in profusion; sword ferns, lady ferns, bellflowers

and piper's lace, evening stars and poison kisses, liverwort, lungwort, hornwort. Mushrooms sprouted down amongst the tree roots, and from their trunks as well, pale spotted hands that caught the rain. Other trees were furred with moss, green or grey or red-tailed, and once a vivid purple. Lichens covered every rock and stone. Toadstools festered besides rotting logs.

The very air seemed green and grey. One look around her and Argella could see that the forest was aptly named. Despite travelling through the rainwood for days, Misty Wood was still a huge mystery around her with much and more still waiting to be explored.

That night they made camp in a flatland ringed by sentinels. Argella accompanied Ser Gilbert Farring to the tent of her brothers to share the night meal with them. Her brothers shared a tent much to the annoyance of Joffrey. It made very little sense to her, Gendry is the older brother, by rights he should have been the one to get annoyed to share his tent with his little brother but she knew Gendry to be well behaved than Joffrey.

The cooks had already made a fire going in their tent and a brace of hares was hissing over the flames. Gendry was at his desk, bare-chested beneath his white cotton shirt. He was polishing his helm as always, cleaning the black steel to the highest sheen, his rain-soaked hair falling across his brow. She watched him for a moment. He had her uncle Renly's eyes and hair, but not his build. Lord Renly was more lithe than brawny while her brother inherited the muscled frame of their father Lord Robert, and his strength which was fabled.

Joffrey was swinging his sword wildly in the other corner. He wore gilded mail and enameled crimson plate, with matching golden lions on their heads. The pale candlelight flashed off the golds and reds every time Joff moved. Bright, shining, and empty, Ella thought. He looked so stupid standing there in the middle of the forest and swinging his sword.

When her little brother saw her he pointed his sword at her. "What are you doing here, sister," he took a couple of wild swings at her, "This tent is not for ladies. Surely you have your own." When he took another swing at her, Gendry threw his gloves right at his face from the far end of the pavilion.

"Lower your sword," he said. "How many times should I have to say that is no toy."

Joff looked enraged, as if he was going to start another one of his childish fits.

"Stop pointing your sword at me, Joff," Ella said to him, "else I'll pull it out of your hands and throw it away."

Finally he lowered the sword. His mouth twisted oddly; if that was a smile, it was the queerest she had ever seen. "Mother says that I would soon lead my own army. I shall make you proud by fighting on your part as well since you can't do it yourself, sister. We ought to have left you off at Storm's End with the other women, now that I think on it. A war camp is not fit for a woman like you."

"I am more concerned about your well being, Joff," Argella chuckled. "Even a woman like me could still knock you down on your back."

She stepped forward and grabbed the sword by the pommel while sliding her leg between his clumsy ones and pulled him to her, knocking him face down before her while disarming the sword smoothly from his hands.

Gendry laughed, keeping his helm down on his table and came to her side.

"As well as on your face," Gendry finished. Argella leaned against her older brother, supporting herself against him with her elbow on his muscled arm.

"Are you going to complain to mother, Joff?" Ella asked.

Gendry looked at their younger brother on the ground. "I think he is going to cry again, Ella."

"As always," she said, laughing. "Its the only thing Joff can do better than anyone."

Joffrey looked up at them from the ground, lips quivering. He did look as if he was going to cry soon. Ella threw the sword to the ground beside him before he shames himself by crying.

"Mock me while you can." Joffrey took his sword and stood up. The sword was a beautiful blue steel, castle forged. The pommel was a golden lion's head with rubies for its eyes. Three fullers were deeply incised in the blade. Lion's Tooth was what her baby brother had named his sword. A stupid name for a sword. The sword itself was a fine weapon, the result of Donal Noye's brilliant craftsmanship, but Argella knew it was wasted on Joffrey. He was hopeless with a sword.

He'd owned a dozen swords including Lion's Tooth, but Argella knew none of them were put to the right use. All of them had been left by him to rust.

"Mother says you'll soon go to the north to live in the frozen wasteland your husband calls as his home." He pushed his blade into the scabbard. "Go on, mock me. You might never get the chance again."

"Oh, who will make fun of you if I am gone, Joff," she said with a flourish. "Don't worry, baby brother. I'll always find a way myself to mock you."

"Will there be a battle soon?" Ella asked Gendry.

"Maybe," he said. "There's been word from King's Landing about dragons and armies. No doubt there will be someone coming down for us. Father thinks that as well."

"They say there's been fighting in the Riverlands," she said pushing her hair away from her face. "Is it true?."

That made Gendry frown. "Tyrell forces has made it to the Riverlands before us. Don't worry," he smiled at her, "nothing bad has happened to your betrothed."

"Stop it," Argella said, smiling despite her sharp tone.

"My lord," Ser Gawen poked his head inside the tent. "Your lord father asked for your presence."

"I'll be there at once," Gendry said and rushed to the flaps of the tent. He stopped at the entrance and looked back at her. "Throw me that fresh jerkin on my bed, Ella."

"Here," she took his jerkin from the bed and threw it at him.

Gendry caught the jerkin. "Make sure that you both finish supper before you sleep," he with a smile and left her alone with Joffrey.

After they ate, Argella turned a stick and some dry moss into a torch, and opted to go off exploring in the nearby caves before going to sleep.

"You should come with me, Joff," Argella told her brother. "I don't think you're having anything else to do here. There are plenty of things to explore here."

"I'm not going anywhere with you," Joff said in a boyish shout.

"Gods you're such a bore, Joff," Ella said. "How are you going to lead armies into battles if you are not even brave enough to take a night's walk in our own forest."

That must have hurt his pride. "I'm not afraid," he screeched. "I'll show it to you." He walked fastly outside the tent to prove his point.

Argella strapped her bow and arrows to her back and rushed after him, to stop him from doing something stupid and getting caught.

They slipped away from the camp without getting caught quite easily. They walked through the green, wet heart of the rainwood, slow going at

the best of times. It took Argella and her brother the better part of the night before the find a perfect place for adventure. They travelled to the music of steady, lashing rains beating at the treetops up above, though underneath the green great canopy of leaves and branches she and her brother stayed surprisingly dry.

Joffrey followed her closely, drawing his sword to every rustle of leaves and the hooting of owls, always voicing that they should start back. Still he followed her when Argella pressed forward. He was too afraid to make it back on his own, she knew.

She finally stopped by the mouth of the cave, getting out of the falling rain. "Stay close to me," Ella told him. "These caves go very deep, it is easy to get lost."

"You cannot mean to go in there all alone," Joff replied, his voice shaking.

"No," Ella said. "I'm going in there with you.

The cave proved much deeper than she had suspected. Beyond the stony mouth where they had entered, a series of twisty passageways led down and down, with black holes snaking off to either side. Further in, the walls opened up again, and the adventurers found themselves in a vast limestone cavern, larger than the great hall of a castle. Their footsteps disturbed a nest of bats, who flapped about them noisily, and distant echoes of their wings shouted back. A slow circuit of the hall revealed three further passages, one so small that it would have required them to proceed on hands and knees.

"So which one do we try first," Argella asked.

Joffrey eyed the first path, then at her face, then at the second and back at her face. May the Gods have mercy on anyone who would follow Joff in battle. He takes too much time to make a simple decision.

"That one," he said at last.

"So we take the other one," Ella said and made for the other path Joff had left out. He followed her with a scoff.

The passageway Argella had chosen for them turned steep and wet within a hundred feet. The footing grew uncertain.

Once she slipped, and had to catch herself to keep from sliding. More than once she considered turning back, but she could see Joff already afraid beyond any reason and it would do no good for him to see her unsure and backing away from the path, so she pressed on. And all at once she found herself in another cavern, five times as big as the last one, surrounded by a forest of stone columns. Joffrey moved close to her side. Argella raised her torch. "Look how the stone's been shaped," she

said. "Those columns, and the wall there. See them?"

"Faces," said Joff, afraid.

Faces they were. So many sad eyes, staring.

"This place belonged to the children of the forest." Argella brushed her fingers against the sad eyes of a face. "A thousand years ago." She turned her head. "Listen."

"What?" Joff asked looking this way and that around them.

"Shh," Ella shushed him. "There are voices. Listen."

There were voices. She could only barely hear them.

"We should go back," her brother urged.

She should go back, she knew, but her sense of adventure got the better of her. She might actually find out the Children of the Forest who are thought to have gone extinct for thousands of years.

Ella followed the voice carefully. They made their way up a slippery slope to another hall. Their passageway led them pass a still black pool, where they discovered blind white fish swimming perfectly as if they were not blind.

Her torch started to burn red and smoky in her hands. If that torch should go out they would be alone in the dark, as good as blind. That was not the worst though. The worst of it all came in the shape of her younger brother. Ella knew its only a matter of time before Joff starts to cry. She should find out the face behind the voice soon. It seemed to come from above, now a bit more clear. That reassured her a bit. They ought to be near the surface. Clearly voices could travel only a certain distance under the ground.

Soon, when they had made their way up the stone cut steps, Ella could make it out that it was the common tongue. Do the children speak the common tongue?

Argella could now see the light of a torch, a smoking star that bid her follow. Twice it seemed to disappear, but she kept on straight, and both times she found herself at the top of steep, narrow stairs, the torch glimmering just above her. She hurried after it, up and up.

"So many?" The voices were fainter as the light dwindled ahead of her. "I never knew . . . Ser Jaime and Ser Lewyn . . . the kingsguard . . . not so easy . . . "

"No. But he did . . . Dragonslayer . . . "

" . . . .it true he killed a dragon . . . "

"No doubt. The songs say so."

A flickering light brushed the wall ever so faintly, and she saw that she stood at the top of a great black well, a shaft twenty feet across plunging deep into the earth. Huge stones had been set into the curving walls as steps, circling down and down, dark as the steps to hell that Septon Ebrose used to tell them of.

Argella peered over the edge and felt the cold black breath on her face. About a dozen feet away from her, she saw a freshly made fire. Two men sat around it, their backs to her. She could hear their voices, echoing against the walls of the cave.

" . . . against Ser Garlan ," one said. "The battle will come soon. A day, two days, a fortnight . . . "

"Do you think Ser Garlan could get better of the Born King?" the second man asked.

"The gods alone know," the first man said. "We ought to think more about us rather than Ser Garlan. We will soon come upon foes , I warn you. We will soon come against the Baratheon army, whether we will it or no. The princess has seen that from atop her black dragon."

"Too soon, too soon," the second man complained.

"Do you think we have a say in the matter?" the man who seemed to be leader replied. "We are just supposed to follow orders else Lord Tarly will have our heads.

The other chuckled. "No less."

Flames licked at the cold air. Argella could make out their green cloaks and the red huntsman sigil on them. Huntsman for House Tarly, she remembered her lessons.

Argella stepped back away from the mouth of the cavern, dropped to her knees, and pulled Joff down to her.

"There are men from the reach in our lands," Ella hushed to him.

"We should go tell father," Joff urged.

"No," she declared. "They might come across our smallfolk and kill them. They could have spied on us and would give away our position to their lords."

"What are you going to do?"

"We," she corrected him. "Surely you've been waiting for this moment of glory." She smiled.

When Joff had nothing to say, Ella started to think about a plan to destroy the camp.

They had set up their camp beside the west end of the cave. Their supply stash was about thirty yards away. There were about a dozen of men in the camp as far as she could see, maybe more. Two of the men were posted to watch over the supplies.

"Can you make it to the supply stash without getting noticed?" she asked.

"Why should I go?" asked Joff. "You go there if you want."

"Joff, listen," she said. "If you could provide some sort of distraction, I could take them out one by one."

"You do the distraction, I will kill them easily," said Joffrey .

"Are you sure you can do it?" Ella asked.

Joffrey took his crossbow off the sling and pointed it at her face. "I can do it better than you."

Argella hoped he wouldn't mess it up. She was glad that he agreed to do something.

Her close proximity to the enemy camp sharpened her senses. The closer I get to them, the more guarded I am, she thought. No one would bother to check for an enemy right next to them. She moved slowly for the huge rock in the shadowed corner near the supply stash, pausing frequently to listen for unnatural sounds, an arrow already fitted into the string of her bow. She didn't see any other men other than the ones she had marked, but she did notice some of the things she hasn't noticed before. Patches of the sweet berries. A bush with the green leaves that would heal stings. Clusters of trees surrounded the vicinity of the cave, making the cave itself a stronghold. And here and there, the black-and-white flash of a mockingjay wing in the branches high over the cave.

She reached the rock and paused a moment, to gather her courage. She knew how to reach the best spying place and how to stay there waiting, calm and patient. Remember, Ella told herself. You're the hunter now, not them. She got a firmer grasp on my bow and went on. She got behind the rock and saw that she could see the entirety of the camp without being seen. It's right at the edge of the cave, and the shadowed nook is so dark, away from the light that she could easily observe the enemy camp without being spotted. Between her and the men lay the dark emptiness which shadowed her under its cloak.

There were four men inside the cave. The two men by the fire, and the other two guarding the supplies. Argella made her first target, a scrawny, ashen-skinned man who must be about her uncle Renly's age. He made almost no impression on her, only he was at the wrong place the wrong time. She knew almost nothing about him. Even now, as he sat there fiddling with some kind of wooden box, he's easily ignored in the presence of his large and noisy companions. But he must be of some value or they wouldn't have bothered to send him here.

All four men seemed to be at ease without the thought of a stranger in their camp. The others were sprinkled around the perimeter of the cave, guarding the camp from all sides.

The supply stash sits in a perfect position, guarding her from the sight of the men. Most of the supplies held in sacks, and wooden crates, were piled neatly in a pyramid a good distance from the fire.

The whole setup perplexed her completely. The distance between the men, the close guards and the fire. Looking at them Argella knew one thing for sure, destroying the camp was not going to be as simple as it looked.

She signalled to Joff and got him ready. When he nodded, Ella picked up a stone and threw it so it bounced off the hard rock near him with a clang.

That got the attention of the men inside the cave. "What's that?" someone asked.

"Go check it out," the man near the flames said.

Her target stood up and walked over to Joffrey. He moved close to Joff, close enough for an easy shot. The bolt her brother loosed left his crossbow with a loud thrum . . . And missed. He is incompetent with a bow as he is with a sword.

"Intruders," the soldier cried at once.

The cry from the soldier showed his companions this was not mere jest. All of them reached for their weapons. The man who raised the alarm was standing above Joff, spear in hand. Her brother was pale and frozen in fear. Looking at him there facing death, Argella thought of nothing other than saving her baby brother, cautions be damned. She vaulted over the rock, bow in hand.

The man who would've killed her brother died before he could drive the spear into Joff. Her arrow drove deeply into the center of his neck. He fell to his knees and halved the brief remainder of his life by yanking out the arrow and drowning in his own blood. Ella reloaded, shifting her aim from side to side. She shot again and again as the men came for them.

She skewered a big man right through the heart. Then severed the windpipe of an aiming archer. Without pausing, she shoulder-rolled forward, came up on one knee, and send an arrow into one of the legs of a man rushing towards Joff, just above his knee and brought him down quickly with an arrow through his eye in rapid succession.

It was excellent shooting. Her heart started to pound, whether it was because of pride or panic she could not say. Without thinking, she pulled another arrow from her quiver searching for another target.

. . . and someone crashed into her, shrieking.

He fell on her like an avalanche of wet wool and steel, lifting her off her feet and slamming her down into the ground. The impact with the hard-packed earth of the plain knocked the wind out of her. All the air was driven out of her, and her head snapped down against some half-buried stone with a crack. "No," was all that she had time to say before he fell on top of her, his weight driving her deeper into the ground. One of his hands groped for her throat, choking her. Her bow was gone, torn from her grasp. She had only her hands to fight him off, but when she slammed a fist into his face it was like punching a ball of wet white dough. He hissed at her.

She hit him again, again, again, smashing the heel of her hand into his eye, but he did not seem to feel her blows. She clawed at his wrists, but his grip just grew tighter, though blood ran from the gouges where she scratched him. He was crushing her, smothering her. She pushed at his shoulders to get him off her, but he was heavy as a horse, impossible to move. When she tried to knee him in the groin, all she did was drive her knee into his belly.

My arrow. Argella clutched at the thought, desperate. She worked her hand down between them, fingers squirming until she had a good grip. With him on top of her, she could not raise the arrowhead to stab, so she drew it hard across his belly. Something warm and wet gushed between her fingers. The man hissed again, louder than before, and stilled above her. She shoved the corpse off her and stood up. The pain blinded her for an instant.

Joffrey was still hiding behind a rock. Surprisingly none of them came against them.

Outside, it appeared as if some fighting was going on. She recognized a few of her father's riders who were bowmen, skilled at shooting from a running horse. Riding swiftly into range they shot arrows at the Tarly guards, and several of them fell; then the riders wheeled away out of the range of the answering bows of their enemies, who shot wildly, not daring to halt.

She could see that the reachmen had somehow tripled their numbers. The song of swords rang faintly, and steel glinted a little in the light of the fires. Arrows came whistling out of the gloom: it was aimed with skill, or guided by fate, and it pierced through a man beside her. There was a quick beat of hoofs, and as one of the stragglers leaped up and ran, he was ridden down and a spear passed through him. He gave a hideous shivering cry and lay still.

Outside the circle of watch-fires, the Tyrell men stood their ground from the direction of the forest and the mountains. They were attacking the Baratheon riders. There was the sound of galloping horses. The Riders were drawing in their ring close round the knoll, risking the enemy arrows, so as to prevent any sortie, while a company rode off to deal with the others.

The sounds had died away a few moments later. Evidently the scouts had been killed or driven off. The Baratheon riders had returned to their silent ominous vigil. It would not last very much longer. Already the night was old. In the East, which had remained unclouded, the sky was beginning to grow pale.

"Joff," Ella called picking up her bow, "come. It will be easy for us if we follow these riders to get back to our camp." Joffrey got up and stamped his feet, his armor clanking.

When they came out into the open, a horseman came riding swiftly to them. The rider's armor was a deep green, the green of leaves in the rainwood, so dark it drank the light of the torches. Gold highlights gleamed from inlay and fastenings like distant fires in that wood, winking every time he moved. His helm was green as well, with two majestic antlers of gold rising from the brows.

He halted before them and took the helmet off. Underneath his helm, his long black hair was tied up into knot with a golden velvet ribbon. Despite the sweat upon his face, her uncle was handsome and splendid as always.

"What is my wild neice doing in the middle of an enemy camp?" Renly Baratheon asked with a smile.

"Its a long story," Ella told him.

"You're hurt." He touched the bruise which had reddened her cheekbone. His glove was covered in blood and he left a smear of blood where he touched.

"It's nothing," she replied and pulled him down to the ground. "Uncle, I want to see father."

Her uncle chuckled. "No doubt Robert wants to see you as well."

"No you don't understand," she said. "Its urgent."

"Patience, young lady," he said. "Don't fly like a mockingjay." It was then her uncle eyed her brother beside her. "So you are here as well, huh, Joff? Why are you shaking anyway?"

"He is just afraid," she said. "That's all."

"I'm not afraid," Joffrey snapped.

"I could see that," her uncle said. He looked behind them and saw the felled bodies of men brought down by her arrows. "Sometimes I think the gods play mockery of our family, Joff. You should be protecting your sister, not the other way around." He smiled. "Now let me go and clean this blood off me. Get some rest, both of you. We'll be leaving soon."

"We'll need horses," Argella said as her uncle walked away.

"Don't worry," he told her. "You can have the horses of my men who weren't as lucky as you."

After they had laid their fallen comrades in a mound and had sung their praises, the Riders of Stormlands made a great fire and scattered the ashes of their enemies. So ended the scout of the reachmen, and no news of it came ever back either to their lords or to the dragon princess; but the smoke of the burning rose high to heaven and was seen by many watchful eyes.

As they made their way back to her father's camp, Ella found herself filled with the thoughts of the men she had killed. Numerous animals had lost their lives at her hands, but never a human. Until today. She could hear Gendry saying, "How different can it be, really?" Ella remembered him saying it when she had asked him about it.

She mused how true he had been. Amazingly similar in the execution. A bow pulled, an arrow shot. But entirely different in the aftermath. She killed a man whose name she doesn't even know. Somewhere his family is weeping for him. His friends call for my blood. Maybe he had a wife or a lover who really believed he would come back.

But then she thought of her brother's still body and she was able to banish the man from her mind. At least, for now.

The journey back takes longer than she expected, even on horseback. Ella supposed that the path through the caves is far shorter and more quicker than this original one.

When they get back, she quickly makes her way to her father's tent.

It was all of golden silk, the largest and grandest structure in the camp. Outside the entrance, Lord Robert's warhammer was displayed beside an immense iron shield blazoned with the crowned stag of House Baratheon. Both her uncles' pavilions flanked it. Uncle Stannis' tent was a dour grey while a great green silk made up Uncle Renly's. The candles within Renly's pavilion made the shimmering silken walls seem to glow, transforming the great tent into a magical castle alive with emerald light. Two of her father's guard stood sentry at the door to the lord's pavilion.

Within, her father was busy talking with Uncle Stannis when Renly Baratheon marched her in, an oil lamp glowing softly at his elbow. He looked up to listen to his brother's report.

"You realize I had half my men out searching for you two?" Robert Baratheon said when Renly was done. "Your mother is beside herself with fear. And your brother is away in the forest looking for you. Argella, you know you are never to go beyond the camp without my leave."

"I didn't go far away from the camp," she blurted. "Well, I didn't mean to. I was in a cave, only they turned into this tunnel. It was all dark, and I heard voices, so I had to follow. Father, there were reachmen in our lands. They were talking about fighting you! I heard them. They said they know they will come upon you soon. That the princess atop the dragon told them so."

"Dragon? Argella, what are you talking about? Who said this?" He looked to uncle Renly for an answer.

"We came across a group of Tyrell outriders," her uncle said. "But we know nothing of dragons or princesses."

"They knew," she told him. "They were talking about it." She tried to remember the rest. "The princess was scouting for them with the black dragon. She tells them the positions of our army and our strength."

"Black dragon," said Robert, unsmiling.

"Daenerys must have come from King's Landing," Uncle Stannis clenched his jaw.

"We will talk about it later, Argella," her father said. "Now go take your brother and let your mother know that you are back. And check with the maester for that bruise."

"But father . . . " She screwed up her face.

"I get it," her father said, "but later. It would seem you've had quite an adventure. You need rest."

"Yes," Argella admitted, "only—"

"Look at you, sweetling. Your cheek is bruised," her father said. "Go see the maester. We'll talk later."

With that she was marched out of the tent, the talk of dragons and dragonslayers fresh on her mind.


	67. Chapter 67

Jaehaerys

Othor," announced Ser Jaremy Rykker, "beyond a doubt. And this one was Jafer Flowers." He turned the corpse over with his foot, and the dead white face stared up at the overcast sky with blue, blue eyes. "They were Ben Stark's men, both of them."

My uncle's men, Jaehaerys Targaryen thought numbly. He remembered how Benjen Stark had rode out with his men, with a small laugh which lightened his eyes. Jae had cared nothing for the man then, but now he wondered if he was alive and safe. Gods, I was such a green boy. A boy who was playing the spoilt child who was demanding attention . . .

Jafer's right wrist ended in the ruin of torn flesh and splintered bone left by Ser Jaremy's sword. His right hand was floating in a jar of vinegar back in Maester Aemon's tower. His left hand, still at the end of his arm, was as black as his cloak.

"Gods have mercy," the Old Bear muttered. He swung down from his garron, handing his reins to Jaehaerys. The morning was unnaturally warm; beads of sweat dotted the Lord Commander's broad forehead like dew on a melon. His horse was nervous, rolling her eyes, backing away from the dead men as far as her lead would allow. Jae led her off a few paces, fighting to keep her from bolting. The horses did not like the feel of this place. For that matter, neither did Jaehaerys.

The dogs liked it least of all. When Bass the kennelmaster had tried to get them to take the scent from the severed hand, they had gone wild, yowling and barking, fighting to get away. Even now they were snarling and whimpering by turns, pulling at their leashes while Chett cursed them for curs.

It is only a wood, Jae told himself, and they're only dead men. He had seen dead men before, killed men before.

Last night he had dreamt a dreadful dream. The dead men had come stumbling from their cold black graves. Jaehaerys had woken in pitch-dark, his heart hammering. In his deep sense of terror, he dared not go back to sleep. Instead he had climbed the Wall and walked, restless, until he saw the light of the dawn off to the cast. It was only a dream. I am a brother of the Night's Watch now, not a frightened boy.

Samwell Tarly huddled beneath the trees, half-hidden behind the horses. His round fat face was the color of curdled milk. So far he had not lurched off to the woods to retch, but he had not so much as glanced at the dead men either. "I can't look," he whispered miserably.

"You have to look," Jaehaerys told him, keeping his voice low so the others would not hear. "Maester Aemon sent you to be his eyes, didn't he? What good are eyes if they're shut?"

"Yes, but . . . I'm such a coward, Jae."

Jaehaerys put a hand on Sam's shoulder. "We have a dozen rangers with us, and the dogs. No one will hurt you, Sam. Go ahead and look. The first look is the hardest."

Sam gave a tremulous nod, working up his courage with a visible effort. Slowly he swiveled his head. His eyes widened, but Jaehaerys held his arm so he could not turn away.

"Ser Jaremy," the Old Bear asked gruffly, "Ben Stark had six men with him when he rode from the Wall. Where are the others?"

Ser Jaremy shook his head. "Would that I knew."

Plainly Mormont was not pleased with that answer. "Two of our brothers butchered almost within sight of the Wall, yet your rangers heard nothing, saw nothing. Is this what the Night's Watch has fallen to? Do we still sweep these woods?"

"Yes, my lord, but—"

"Do we still mount watches?"

"We do, but—"

"This man wears a hunting horn." Mormont pointed at Othor. "Must I suppose that he died without sounding it? Or have your rangers all gone deaf as well as blind?"

Ser Jaremy bristled, his face taut with anger. "No horn was blown, my lord, or my rangers would have heard it. I do not have sufficient men to mount as many patrols as I should like . . . and since Benjen was lost, we have stayed closer to the Wall than we were wont to do before, by your own command."

The Old Bear grunted. "Yes. Well. Be that as it may." He made an impatient gesture. "Tell me how they died."

Squatting beside the dead man he had named Jafer Flowers, Ser Jaremy grasped his head by the scalp. The hair came out between his fingers, brittle as straw. The knight cursed and shoved at the face with the heel of his hand. A great gash in the side of the corpse's neck opened like a mouth, crusted with dried blood. Only a few ropes of pale tendon still attached the head to the neck. "This was done with an axe."

"Aye," muttered Dywen, the old forester. "Belike the axe that Othor carried, m'lord."

Jaehaerys could feel his breakfast churning in his belly, but he pressed his lips together and made himself look at the second body. Othor had been a big ugly man, and he made a big ugly corpse. No axe was in evidence. Jaehaerys remembered Othor; he had been the one bellowing the bawdy song as the rangers rode out. His singing days were done. His flesh was blanched white as milk, everywhere but his hands. His hands were black like Jafer's. Blossoms of hard cracked blood decorated the mortal wounds that covered him like a rash, breast and groin and throat. Yet his eyes were still open. They stared up at the sky, blue as sapphires.

Ser Jaremy stood. "The wildlings have axes too."

Mormont rounded on him. "So you believe this is Mance Rayder's work? This close to the Wall?"

"Who else, my lord?"

Jae could have told him. He knew, they all knew, yet no man of them would say the words. The Others are only a story, his father has told a lot about them. He had always thought of them as a tale told to the shiver of the children. It would be foolish to think of it otherwise.

Lord Commander Mormont gave a snort. "If Ben Stark had come under wildling attack a half day's ride from Castle Black, he would have returned for more men, chased the killers through all seven hells and brought me back their heads."

"Unless he was slain as well," Ser Jaremy insisted. "It has been many moons since Benjen left us, my lord," Ser Jaremy went on. "The forest is vast. The wildlings might have fallen on him anywhere. I'd wager these two were the last survivors of his party, on their way back to us . . . but the enemy caught them before they could reach the safety of the Wall. The corpses are still fresh, these men cannot have been dead more than a day . . . ."

"No," Samwell Tarly squeaked.

Jaehaerys was startled. Sam's nervous, high-pitched voice was the last he would have expected to hear. The fat boy was frightened of the officers, and Ser Jaremy was not known for his patience.

"I did not ask for your views, boy," Rykker said coldly.

"Let him speak, ser," Jaehaerys said.

Mormont's eyes flicked from Sam to Jaehaerys and back again. "If the lad has something to say, I'll hear him out. Come closer, boy. We can't see you behind those horses."

Sam edged past Jae and the garrons, sweating profusely. "My lord, it . . . it can't be a day or . . . look . . . the blood . . . "

"Yes?" Mormont growled impatiently. "Blood, what of it?"

"He soils his smallclothes at the sight of it," Chett shouted out, and the rangers laughed.

"Let him talk," Jae spoke for his friend. "Maester Aemon himself sent him here in his stead." The men backed off at that. They still fear my position and name. It still had its profits.

Sam mopped at the sweat on his brow. "You . . . you can see where Ser Jaremy's sword . . . you can see where he cut off that man's hand, and yet . . . the stump hasn't bled, look . . . " He waved a hand. "My father . . . L-lord Randyll, he, he made me watch him dress animals sometimes, when . . . after . . . " Sam shook his head from side to side, his chins quivering. Now that he had looked at the bodies, he could not seem to look away. "A fresh kill . . . the blood would still flow, my lords. Later . . . later it would be clotted, like a . . . a jelly, thick and . . . and . . . " He looked as though he was going to be sick. "This man . . . look at the wrist, it's all . . . crusty . . . dry . . . like . . . "

Jaehaerys saw at once what Sam meant. He could see the torn veins in the dead man's wrist, iron worms in the pale flesh. His blood was a black dust. Yet Jaremy Rykker was unconvinced. "If they'd been dead much longer than a day, they'd be ripe by now, boy. They don't even smell."

Dywen, the gnarled old forester who liked to boast that he could smell snow coming on, sidled closer to the corpses and took a whiff. "Well, they're no pansy flowers, but . . . m'lord has the truth of it. There's no corpse stink."

"They . . . they aren't rotting." Sam pointed, his fat finger shaking only a little. "Look, there's . . . there's no maggots or . . . or . . . worms or anything . . . they've been lying here in the woods, but they . . . they haven't been chewed or eaten by animals . . . "

The rangers exchanged glances; they could see it was true, every man of them. Mormont frowned, glancing from the corpses to the dogs. "Chett, bring the hounds closer."

Chett tried, cursing, yanking on the leashes, giving one animal a lick of his boot. Most of the dogs just whimpered and planted their feet. He tried dragging one. The bitch resisted, growling and squirming as if to escape her collar. Finally she lunged at him. Chett dropped the leash and stumbled backward. The dog leapt over him and bounded off into the trees.

"This . . . this is all wrong," Sam Tarly said earnestly. "The blood . . . there's bloodstains on their clothes, and . . . and their flesh, dry and hard, but . . . there's none on the ground, or . . . anywhere. With those . . . those . . . those . . . " Sam made himself swallow, took a deep breath. "With those wounds . . . terrible wounds . . . there should be blood all over. Shouldn't there?"

Dywen sucked at his wooden teeth. "Might be they didn't die here. Might be someone brought 'em and left 'em for us. A warning, as like." The old forester peered down suspiciously. "And might be I'm a fool, but I don't know that Othor never had no blue eyes afore."

Ser Jaremy looked startled. "Neither did Flowers," he blurted, turning to stare at the dead man.

A silence fell over the wood. For a moment all they heard was Sam's heavy breathing and the wet sound of Dywen sucking on his teeth. Jaehaerys squatted beside the corpses. Could it be what Dywen said was true? Were the bodies left as a warning? He'd heard of that before. Andrew Stark had done the same when he killed his uncle in Braavos.

"Burn them," someone whispered. One of the rangers; Jaehaerys could not have said who. "Yes, burn them," a second voice urged.

The Old Bear gave a stubborn shake of his head. "Not yet. I want Maester Aemon to have a look at them. We'll bring them back to the Wall."

Some commands are more easily given than obeyed. They wrapped the dead men in cloaks, but when Hake and Dywen tried to tie one onto a horse, the animal went mad, screaming and rearing, lashing out with its hooves, even biting at Ketter when he ran to help. The rangers had no better luck with the other garrons; not even the most placid wanted any part of these burdens. In the end they were forced to hack off branches and fashion crude slings to carry the corpses back on foot. It was well past midday by the time they started back.

"I will have these woods searched," Mormont commanded Ser Jaremy as they set out. "Every tree, every rock, every bush, and every foot of muddy ground within ten leagues of here. Use all the men you have, and if you do not have enough, borrow hunters and foresters from the stewards. If Ben and the others are out here, dead or alive, I will have them found. And if there is anyone else in these woods, I will know of it. You are to track them and take them, alive if possible. Is that understood?"

"It is, my lord," Ser Jaremy said. "It will be done."

After that, Mormont rode in silence, brooding. Jaehaerys followed close behind him; as the Lord Commander's steward, that was his place. Ser Gwayne rode behind him. The day was grey, damp, overcast, the sort of day that made you wish for rain. No wind stirred the wood; the air hung humid and heavy, and Jae's clothes clung to his skin. It was warm. Too warm. The Wall was weeping copiously, had been weeping for days, and sometimes Jaehaerys even imagined it was shrinking.

The old men called this weather spirit summer, and said it meant the season was giving up its ghosts at last. After this the cold would come, they warned, and a long summer always meant a long winter. This summer had lasted ten years. Jaehaerys had been a babe in arms when it began.

When he caught his first glimpse of the Wall looming above the tops of an ancient gnarled oak, he was vastly relieved. Mormont reined up suddenly and turned in his saddle. "Tarly," he barked, "come here."

Jaehaerys saw the start of fright on Sam's face as he lumbered up on his mare; doubtless he thought he was in trouble. "You're fat but you're not stupid, boy," the Old Bear said gruffly. "You did well back there. And you, Jaehaerys."

Sam blushed a vivid crimson and tripped over his own tongue as he tried to stammer out a courtesy. Jaehaerys had to smile.

When they emerged from under the trees, Mormont spurred his tough little garron to a trot. High above, the men on the Wall saw the column approaching. Jaehaerys heard the deep, throaty call of the watchman's great horn, calling out across the miles; a single long blast that shuddered through the trees and echoed off the ice.

UUUUUUUOOOOOOOOOOOOOOooooooooooooooooooooooo.

The sound faded slowly to silence. One blast meant rangers returning, and Jaehaerys thought, I was a ranger for one day, at least.

Bowen Marsh was waiting at the first gate as they led their garrons through the icy tunnel. The Lord Steward was red-faced and agitated. "My lord," he blurted at Mormont as he swung open the iron bars, "there's been a bird, you must come at once."

"What is it, man?" Mormont said gruffly.

Curiously, Marsh glanced at Jaehaerys before he answered. "Maester Aemon has the letter. He's waiting in your solar."

"Very well. Jaehaerys , see to my horse, and tell Ser Jaremy to put the dead men in a storeroom until the maester is ready for them." Mormont strode away grumbling.

As they led their horses back to the stable, Jaehaerys was uncomfortably aware that people were watching him. Ser Alliser Thorne was drilling his boys in the yard, but he broke off to stare at him, a faint half smile on his lips.

Something's wrong, Jaehaerys knew. Something's very wrong. Had something happened to his brother? Or father? He still remembered Andrew Stark's words. Even now his words chilled him to the bone.

The dead men were carried to one of the storerooms along the base of the Wall, a dark cold cell chiseled from the ice and used to keep meat and grain and sometimes even beer. Jaehaerys saw that Mormont's horse was fed and watered and groomed before he took care of his own. Afterward he went to see if the Old Bear has any need of him.

He walked to the Lord Commander's Tower alone, with a curious sense of apprehension. The brothers on guard eyed him solemnly as he approached. "The Old Bear's in his solar," one of them announced. "He was asking for you."

Jaehaerys nodded. He climbed the tower steps briskly. He wants wine or a fire in his hearth, that's all, he told himself.

When he entered the solar, Mormont's raven screamed at him. "Corn!" the bird shrieked. "Corn! Corn! Corn!"

"Don't you believe it, I just fed him," the Old Bear growled. He was seated by the window, reading a letter. "Bring me a cup of wine, and pour one for yourself."

"For myself, my lord?"

Mormont lifted his eyes from the letter to stare at Jaehaerys. "You heard me."

"Sit," Mormont commanded him when he was done. "Drink."

Jaehaerys remained standing. "It's my father, isn't it?"

The Old Bear tapped the letter with a finger. "Your father has declared King Andrew a traitor," he rumbled. " Your brother is in the field with all the power of the Red Keep behind him."

"Has something happened to Aegon?"

"No," said Mormont. "So far he's not yet met with opposition."

For a moment, Jaehaerys thought of Aegon meeting the same fate like him. His brother here. That was a strange thought, and strangely uncomfortable. It would be a monstrous injustice to strip him of the crown and force him to take the black, and yet if it meant his life . . . No, Aegon would never fail their father the way he'd failed.

Mormont sipped his wine. "This could not have happened at a worse time. There are dark days and cold nights ahead, I feel it in my bones . . . " He gave Jaehaerys a long shrewd look. "I hope you are not thinking of doing anything stupid, boy."

It's still my family, Jaehaerys wanted to say, but he knew that Mormont would not want to hear it. His throat was dry. He made himself take another sip of wine.

"Your duty is here now," the Lord Commander reminded him. "Your old life ended when you took the black." His bird made a raucous echo. "Black." Mormont took no notice. "Whatever they do in the south is none of our concern." When Jaehaerys did not answer, the old man finished his wine and said, "You're free to go. I'll have no further need of you today."

Jaehaerys did not remember standing or leaving the solar. The next he knew, he was descending the tower steps, thinking, This is my father, my brother, how can it be none of my concern? Then the Old Maester's voice sounded from somewhere inside. Jaehaerys thought of Ser Gwayne and felt ashamed at once for even thinking it.

He spent the rest of the day all alone. The north wind began to blow strongly once the sun went down. Inside his room, Jaehaerys Targaryen stayed awake in bed for a long time, thinking about his family, and staring at the candle on the table beside his narrow bed. The flame flickered and swayed, the shadows moved around him, the room seemed to grow darker and colder. I will not sleep tonight, Jaehaerys thought.

Yet he must have dozed. He had seen the dead Othor walking. He must've dreamt it. There was no other way he could've seen it rather than in a dream. Dead men do not walk. The candle nearby had long since burned out. He was trembling, violently. When had it gotten so cold?

Slowly, Jaehaerys pushed himself to his feet. He was shivering uncontrollably. He had to see it for himself, that he'd just seen a bad dream. His sword was in its sheath. Jaehaerys reached and worked it free. The heft of steel in his fist made him bolder.

Three quick steps brought him to the door. He grabbed the handle and pulled it inward. The creak of the hinges almost made him jump.

He started climbing up the narrow steps. That was when he heard it; the soft scrape of a boot on stone, the sound of a latch turning. The sounds came from above. From the Lord Commander's chambers.

It can't be, Jaehaerys told himself. This is the Lord Commander's Tower, it's guarded day and night, this couldn't happen, it's a dream, I'm having a nightmare.

A nightmare this might be, yet it was no dream.

He moved up the steps. Shadows lurked in every turn of the stair. Jaehaerys crept up warily, probing any suspicious darkness with the point of his sword.

Suddenly he heard the shriek of Mormont's raven. "Corn," the bird was screaming. "Corn, corn, corn, corn, corn, corn." The door to Mormont's solar was wide open. Jaehaerys stopped in the doorway, blade in hand, giving his eyes a moment to adjust. Heavy drapes had been pulled across the windows, and the darkness was black as ink. "Who's there?" he called out.

Then he saw it, a shadow in the shadows, sliding toward the inner door that led to Mormont's sleeping cell, a man-shape all in black, cloaked and hooded . . . but beneath the hood, its eyes shone like clear blue sapphires . . .

Jaehaerys felt as blind as Maester Aemon, but had no time to be afraid. He threw himself forward, shouting, bringing down the longsword with all his weight behind it. Steel sheared through sleeve and skin and bone, yet the sound was wrong somehow. The smell that engulfed him was so queer and cold he almost gagged. He saw arm and hand on the floor, black fingers wriggling in a pool of moonlight.

The hooded man lifted his pale moon face, and Jaehaerys slashed at it without hesitation. The sword laid the intruder open to the bone, taking off half his nose and opening a gash cheek to cheek under those eyes, eyes, eyes like blue stars burning. Suddenly Jaehaerys knew that face. Othor, he thought, reeling back. Gods, he's dead, he's dead, I saw him dead. This is no dream.

He felt something scrabble at his ankle. Black fingers clawed at his calf. The arm was crawling up his leg, ripping at wool and flesh. Shouting with revulsion, Jaehaerys pried the fingers off his leg with the point of his sword and flipped the thing away. It lay writhing, fingers opening and closing.

The corpse lurched forward. There was no blood. One-armed, face cut near in half, it seemed to feel nothing. Jaehaerys held the longsword before him. "Stay away!" he commanded, his voice gone shrill. The severed arm was wriggling out of its torn sleeve, a pale snake with a black five-fingered head. Jae stomped hard on it with the heel of his boots. Finger bones crunched. He hacked at the corpse's neck, as it stepped forward.

Dead Othor slammed into him, knocking him off his feet.

Jaehaerys' breath went out of him as the fallen table caught him between his shoulder blades. The sword, where was the sword? He'd lost the damned sword! When he opened his mouth to scream, the wight jammed its black corpse fingers into his mouth. Gagging, he tried to shove it off, but the dead man was too heavy. Its hand forced itself farther down his throat, icy cold, choking him. Its face was against his own, filling the world. Jaehaerys raked cold flesh with his nails and kicked at the thing's legs. He bit the cold fingers in his mouth and chewed them off. The corpse felt nothing but the lack of fingers allowed him to breathe. It was all Jaehaerys needed as he rolled over. He smashed the frozen nose with the heel of his hand and got away from its grasp, retching and shaking.

Jaehaerys looked for his sword desperately . . . . . . and saw Lord Mormont, groggy from sleep, standing in the doorway with an oil lamp in hand.

Jaehaerys tried to shout, but his voice was gone. Staggering to his feet, he snatched the lamp from the Old Bear's fingers. The flame flickered and almost died.

Spinning, Jaehaerys smashed the lamp into the black face of the nearing corpse with both hands. Metal crunched, glass shattered, oil spewed, and Dead Othor went up in a great whoosh of flame.

The blow came a bit late. Othor bulled into him, flames and all. Jae's black jerkin took fire at once. But the heat of the flames on his face was sweeter than any kiss Jaehaerys had ever known.

He picked up the sword and eyed the corpse across him. The flames had spread all along his jerkin. Jaehaerys welcomed the heat, he's always welcomed it.

The burning corpse did not share his feelings though. It seemed as if it was afraid of the fire. For the first time that day Jaehaerys felt a bit of happiness. As he rushed forward to meet the corpse, sword in hand and covered in flaming clothes the dead man backed.

He reached the corpse and hacked at it with wild swings of his sword. When the dead thing put his hand on Jae to hurt him it burned. Cloaked in fire Jaehaerys hacked the thing again and again until the corpse dropped down into several chunks of burning meat.


	68. Chapter 68

**_Asher_**

Edgar Dustin and Owen of Stardom had led twenty men and gone ahead to scout, and it was them who brought back word of the clear road at the crossroads.

"For the inn, Asher?" Ethan Hunt asked.

"Mmm," Asher said deep in thought. He surveyed his army: near three hundred heavy horses, five hundred of light cavalry and the larger part of them footmen. Bill Dustin was leading the men on foot behind him. He wondered how long he would have to stay here and hold the ford. Lord Arryn might be close already. It didn't matter anyway, he'd promised Andrew that he would hold the ford and he intended to do it for as long as he could. "It might be best if we set up our camp and defences as quick as possible," he suggested.

"Might be," said Denys Snow. "We might come against opposition before Lord Arryn arrives."

Jon Locke glowered, a fearsome sight to see. "Why waste time when you have the land in sight?"

"We ought to have that inn, my lord," Finnick the Orphan-Captain said. "Its too good a place to defend against armies twice our numbers."

"Wait for it until you're sure that no one is hiding for us in or around the inn." Reyna Longbraid was a small hard woman, flat as a boy, and no fool.

"Its clear, Asher," Edgar said. "It seems all is well and clear at the inn. We shall ride for the crossroads in peace."

"The cavalry shall come with me to the inn," Asher said. "Send a rider back to Bill telling him to bring the foot here and not in a rush."

He put his heels to his horse and trotted off, his men following him. Edgar and Owen rode with him. Behind them Ethan, Denys and the other High Officers of the Company of the Rose followed on their own garrons.

The officers rode together, and Finnick and Reyna stayed close to each other rather than with the others. It was not a secret in the company that Finnick and Reyna stayed in the same tent most nights.

He could use those distant towers of unmortared stone and post watchers in them to watch the lands around for enemy movements. As their party down the kingsroad, Asher saw that the crossroads was a perfect position to hold command of both the Trident and the Kingsguard. Where the Kingsroad twisted into a narrow causeway with the river close on one side and a short, wide wall of dry stone, Asher Forrester came to find his first strong point. "Owen," he called for his friend, "gather some men and block the road to the north here. A low earthen wall four feet should close off the road, and put a dozen crossbowmen to man the heights." Asher halted his followers there and pointed to Gilden Norrey in their company. "Norrey you have the command here. No one gets in or out without my leave."

The work was quick to start, and the wall started to come up. They trotted past green fields and stone and wooden holdfasts alike, down to the crossroads and the Green Fork of the Trident. Asher saw that the river had quieted a great deal now as it ran quiet and calm nearby. The air was fresh and light without the hint of rain. The day was clear with the sunlight shimmering upon the clear water of the Green Fork. A perfect day for fording the river, Asher thought. He hoped that the weather would not betray them and will stay calm until Lord Arryn comes down by the high road.

Half a league from the crossroads, Asher stopped and called for Finnick. "Erect a barricade of sharpened stakes around the perimeter of the the Crossroads Inn. Man the barricade with pikemen and archers all the time. Spread out our camp behind the line. We will take the inn at the crossroads for the quarters of the high officers for our stay here." He turned to look at the man to whom he gave the command. "And remember no pillaging or raping."

"As you say, my lord." Finnick wheeled his horse about and shouted commands. Men went about to collect logs for the rows of stakes to make a line of barricade. Asher led his party through.

It was near midday when they reached it, at the crossroads north of the great confluence of the Trident.

The crossroads gave him pause. If they turned west from here, it was an easy ride down to Riverrun across the Green Fork. Andrew would be on his way there already, to the defence of Riverrun against the gathering storm. When Winterfell braced for war, so did its allies in the south. With Riverrun so much closer to King's Landing, it was there the wrath of the dragons was directed. The king, his friend was every bit the good man he'd known, came to the help of his allies. Asher could only hope that they were not so late. In the past few days they've been hearing more of fighting in the riverlands with Garlan Tyrell smashing their friends, the river lords all the way from Stoney Sept to Riverrun.

The eastern road was wilder and more dangerous, climbing through rocky foothills and thick forests into the Mountains of the Moon, past high passes and deep chasms to the Vale of Arryn and the stony Fingers beyond. Above the Vale, the Eyrie stood high and impregnable, its towers reaching for the sky. Lord Arryn would be coming down that way, and with him came the eastern lords who owed service to the Arryns for war.

There was life at the crossroads inn, though. Even before they reached the gate, Asher heard the sound: a clamour of steel and gaggle of children.

"Children," Edgar said. "Either they are the old innkeep's or there are visitors." He put his heels into his horse.

"I hope they have a visiting cook as well," Jon Locke said. "A crisp roast chicken would set the world aright."

The inn's yard was a sea of brown mud that sucked at the hooves of the horses. The sound of children was louder here, and Asher saw that there were no horses in the stables. So there are no visitors here. A small boy was swinging from the rusted chains of the weathered gibbet that loomed above the yard. Four girls stood on the inn's porch, watching him. The youngest was no more than two. The oldest, nine or ten, stood with her arms protectively about the little one. "Girls," Ethan Hunt called to them, "run and fetch your mother."

The boy dropped from the chain and dashed off toward the stables. The four girls stood fidgeting. After a moment one said, "We have no mothers," and another added, "I had one but they killed her." The oldest of the four stepped forward, pushing the little one behind her skirts. "Who are you?" she demanded.

"Honest men of King Andrew Stark of Winterfell," Asher told her. "Who are you?"

"The Born King." The girl on the porch was surprised to hear about Andrew. She looked the army behind him over, wary as only a ten-year-old can be. "I'm Willow. Are you here to stay in the inn?"

"Beds, and ale, and hot food to fill our bellies," said Denys Snow as he dismounted. "Are you the innkeep?"

She shook her head. "That's my sister Jeyne. She takes care of the inn when aunt Masha is not here. If you come for whores, there are none. My sister run them off. We have beds, though. More are featherbeds, but some are straw."

"And all have fleas, I don't doubt," said Ethan Hunt.

"Why are here anyway?" Willow asked. "You don't look like you are here to stay."

"Do you question all your guests this way?" Edgar Dustin asked.

"We don't have so many guests. Not like before the war. It's mostly sparrows on the roads these days, or worse."

"Worse?" Asher asked.

"Thieves," said a boy from the stables. "Robbers."

"All these children," Asher said to the girl Willow. "Are they your . . . sisters? Brothers? Kin and cousins?"

"No." Willow was staring at her, in a way that he knew well. She doesn't trust me and I cannot fault her. Even I wouldn't trust a man at the head of an army if I were in her place. Willow continued. "They're just . . . I don't know . . . the sparrows bring them here, sometimes. Others find their own way. You still have not answered what you want?" the girl Willow asked again.

"We don't need much from you, my lady," Asher said. "In the name of King Andrew Stark, Lord of Winterfell and King in the North, I, Asher Forrester, High Commander of the Company of the Rose, take command of the crossroads."

At that a lithe and brown haired girl appeared through the door behind Willow. Jeyne Heddle was a pretty girl, not much older than thirteen with a shy but lively smile. "I beg you, my Lord," she said, "please take your business elsewhere. There is nothing for you her but little children."

"We mean no harm for you, my lady," Asher promised. "We are in need of a dry bed and a warm fire. All we require is a roof on top of our heads and a little food to sate our hunger."

"But, my Lord, we don't have rooms to house all of you here," said Jeyne.

"My men will settle themselves in the camp around your inn," Asher informed her. "Just provide what you can for us."

More children appeared as if by magic; ragged boys with unshorn locks crept from under the porch, and furtive girls appeared in the windows overlooking the yard. Some clutched crossbows, wound and loaded.

"Gods, we ought to stay back, Asher," Owen laughed.

"Wat, you help them with those horses," said Willow. "Will, put down that rock, they've not come to hurt us. Tansy, Pate, run get some wood to feed the fire. Jon Penny, you help the man with those carts. I'll show them to some rooms."

Boys emerged hesitantly from the stables to see to their horses. Asher dismounted and gave up his horse to one of them. He ruffled the thick mop of the boy's hair with a smile as the boy took grip on the reins.

In the end they took ten rooms for the high officers of his company, each boasting a featherbed, a chamber pot, and a window. Asher's room had a hearth as well. A little boy brought in some wood to keep it burning.

When he came down for supper the common room was crawling with children. Asher tried to count them, but they would not stand still even for an instant, so he counted some of them twice or thrice and others not at all, until he finally gave it up. He went outside to look at the status of his army.

Outside his camp spread over leagues. The common men camped out in the open, but the lieutenants had thrown up tents, and some of the officers had erected pavilions as large as houses. Asher saw that the violet roses hanging from pikes and staffs all around the camp. Thin fingers of smoke rose from hundreds of cookfires, mailed men sat under trees and honed their blades.

Soon the common room of the inn was changed into their war council as the other officers arrived. They had pushed the tables together in three long rows, and men and boys alike were wrestling benches from the back. The older of the boys in the inn were no more than ten or twelve. It was Willow shouting all the orders to them, as if she were a queen in her castle and the other children were no more than servants. If she were highborn, command would come naturally to her, and deference to them.

Outside, the last light of day was fading. Inside, Willow had four greasy tallow candles lit and told the girls to keep the hearthfire burning high and hot. The boys helped his men with building the barricade and bringing in their supplies of salt cod, mutton, vegetables, nuts, and wheels of cheese, whilst Jeyne repaired to the kitchens to take charge of the porridge.

"My lord," Finnick said, entering the common room. "The barricade you'd asked has been erected."

Asher took his seat in a chair, and gave a long at him. "Get Flint's archers occupy the towers in the land around the inn and ask them to keep watch."

"Will do," Finnick said.

"Has Bill Dustin arrived with the foot yet," Asher asked Barton.

"No," Barton said. "Our riders say that he'll be here soon."

"How is the war going?"

Finnick answered. "The men of Riverrun say, Ser Edmure had scattered small troops of men along his borders to stop our raiding, and Ser Garlan and his Reachmen are routing most of them individually before they could regroup."

"Our maester has heard that Ser Garlan has smashed the Lords Vance and Piper at Tumbler's Falls," Barton said. "Lord Hoster has massed his Riverlords under the walls of Riverrun. Our scouts say that Tyrell will soon come to meet the lords of the Trident under the walls of Riverrun.

"What of His Grace?" Asher asked.

"We haven't heard anything from his grace, yet," Barton admitted. "He will be on his way to Riverrun already."

"If the Arryns come forth to join us, we could ride for their aid in no time," Asher said. "Keep a close watch to the south. I don't want to be surprised by any army. "

"We are camped in a strong spot," Rayna Longbraid said. "With the advantage of encircling any opposition against the river we are safe here."

"Doesn't matter," Asher told her. "It never hurts to be too careful."

So when it was done, Asher went back to his room. He had spent too much time on horseback that he had been wishing that featherbed for days. Sleep came easier than anything.

He was deep in sleep but a terrible sound woke him at once. Asher sat up on his pallet with her heart thumping.

Before he could go back to sleep again, the sound came shuddering through the night—only it was clear in his ear this time, it was Kent blowing his hunting horn from the south barricade, sounding danger. In a heartbeat, all of them in the inn were pulling on clothes and snatching for whatever weapons they owned. Asher pulled on his doublet and ran for the gate as the horn sounded again, sword in hand. As he dashed past the front door of the inn, his men were already rushing towards the barricade from where the alarm came. Asher stopped and looked back. Jeyne Heddle and her sister Willow were holding a group of whimpering children together "Go and hide inside," he told them quickly and plunged on. By then he could hear horses and shouts away from the camp.

He scrambled up through the camps. The men were all around him now, shouting and cursing. Asher had to wedge through the mass of his men. He shouted for them to quiet. "Get into your ranks," he shouted loud enough to be heard over the ruckus. "Get ready for battle."

When the order was somewhat restored in the camp he wedged on his toes to see over the gathered men. For a moment he thought the kingsroad was full of lantern bugs. Then he realized they were men with torches, galloping between the trees and hills. He saw an oak go up, flames licking at the belly of the night with hot orange tongues as the branches caught fire. Another followed, and then another, and soon there were fires blazing everywhere.

Edgar pushed his way up to him, wearing his helm. "How many?"

Asher tried to count, but they were riding too fast, torches spinning through the air as they flung them. "Hundreds," he said. "Thousands, I don't know. It is no mere foragers." Over the roar of the flames, he could hear shouts. "They'll come for us soon."

"There," Edgar said, pointing.

A wooden cart covered in flames moved between the burning tents toward the holdfast. More followed the first one quickly, breaking the lines of his rallied men. Out in the distance, across the wooden barricade, two long columns of armoured men rode towards them. Firelight glittered off metal helms and spattered their mail and plate with orange and yellow highlights. One carried a banner on a tall lance. He thought it was black and red, but it was hard to tell in the night, with the fires roaring all around. Everything seemed red or black or orange.

The fire leapt from one tree to another. Asher saw a tree consumed, the flames creeping across its branches until it stood against the night in robes of living orange. Everyone was awake now, manning the barricades or struggling with the frightened animals below. He could hear Bill Dustin shouting commands.

If the riders gets through to their disordered camp it would certainly be a bloody massacre. "Get the barricade up," Asher shouted. "Block the road."

His men were quick to respond. The barricade was heaved up forcing the oncoming riders rein up before the sharpened stakes in fear of impaling themselves through the stakes. Though some were not so lucky as their counterparts as they were too close and fast to stop their mounts in time. The impact of the quick stop by the riders on the front was met wholly by the men in the rear as they smashed against the riders on the front out of control.

"Barton!" Edgar shouted to his friend beside him. "Gather the remaining archers and take position at the top of the inn. Pick out their men one by one."

Asher moved for the barricade to the south. "To the gate with me!" he shouted. "To the King."

"To the king!" His men picked up his cry and followed him. "To the king!"

"Asher," Edgar called. "We need to gather the cavalry else they will ride us down."

"Go to my uncle," Asher told him. "Rally as much men as you can. Then encircle the inn by the hills to the east and break them in their flank. Owen and Hunt go with him. Denys and Roger with me."

When Edgar left with Owen and Ethan Hunt, Asher led his ordered men to the weakened barricade to the south. Chaos had ensued by the barricade when they arrived there. Already there were men getting over the barricade to fight with his own. Kill Bill was cleaving anyone who dared get in range with his battleaxe. He could see that more men were coming over the stakes and some were even engaged in pulling them off. Asher rushed to his men's aid.

All around them, the land burned. The night air was full of smoke, and the drifting red embers outnumbered the stars. Asher scowled. "Don't let them get past this barricade. Hold it. Hold it in the king's name."

The knight at the head of the mounted riders raised a lanquid fist, and spears and arrows came hurtling from the fire-bright shadows behind. A spear hit a man who was right beside him, and Asher wondered if he had been the target. The spearhead went in his throat and exploded out the back of his neck, dark and wet. The man grabbed at the shaft, and fell boneless on the ground.

More spears and arrows flew. Asher yanked down Denys and Roger and stayed in the ground until it was clear. From across the stakes came the rattle of armor, the scrape of swords on scabbards, the banging of spears on shields, mingled with curses and the hoofbeats of racing horses. A torch sailed spinning above their heads, trailing fingers of fire as it thumped down in the dirt of the yard.

"Blades!" Asher shouted. "Spread apart, defend the barricade wherever they hit. Gerren, Finnick, hold the west end by the river. Gildon, hold the east."

Asher raised his sword and pushed for the center.

He hacked the arm of a man as his hand grasped the top of the stakes trying to vault over it. He saw it by the light of the burning trees, so clear that it was easy to find men at the other end of his sword.

He slashed down hard on the man who came for him from his left, and the castle-forged steel bit into the gap in his armor where his neck met with the shoulder. Blood spurted, and the man sank down, and another took his place. He too vanished as suddenly as he had appeared. "Behind!" Roger yelled from his right. Asher whirled. A bearded and helmetless man raised his sword to spilt Asher into two. As he came into range, he stepped aside from the steel and drove the point of his sword at his chest into his heart.

The enemy army was well led and numerous, the sharpened stakes were being pushed off the ground. It's only quite some time now before it falls entirely and there seemed to be no end to the foes. For each one Asher cut down or stabbed or maimed, another was coming over the stakes right for him. Denys was fighting a knight in the spiked helm with silk plumes, and Roger was shoving the point of his dirk through the visor of another knight he had dismounted. Every time Asher looked up, more torches were flying, trailing long tongues of flame that lingered behind his eyes. He saw a red dragon on a black banner and thought of Rhaegar, wondering if he was here thinking that Andrew would be here. When four men assaulted him with axes, Asher danced around them until he killed two and the other two were lost in the mass of men. To the west Finnick wrestled a man into the river, and Gerren was drowning a knight in armor. Rayna Longbraid's axes were finding men all around her until a knight with yellow skulls and red lips painted upon his shield opened her face in two with his sword. Everything smelled of blood and smoke and iron and piss, but after a time it seemed like that was only one smell.

He never saw how the barricade was destroyed, but it was pulled off, lying on the ground as no more than mere sticks. "Back to the inn!" Asher screamed "Pull back."

When he led his men back to the inn, busy fighting the pursuing foes, Asher looked past them, and saw steel shadows rushing through the burning trees, firelight shining off mail and blades, and he knew that Edgar had rallied his cavalry. He didn't hope for much, thinking a little bit of time would be enough to rally his men again to hold the last stand against these knights of Rhaegar Targaryen. The night rang to the clash of steel and the cries of the wounded and dying.

He saw Edgar's charge did nothing but to harass the long column of steel. But it did give him enough time to gather his men into a dense ring with every man's back guarded by the other. When Edgar's horsemen were chased off into the trees from where they had come, he knew it was done.

It was his doing, Asher knew. To bring all these men to their deaths, it was his doing. He had wanted it more than anything and in the end he has gotten his wish- to die fighting for his friend.

The stable was on fire, he saw. Flames were licking up its sides from where a torch had fallen on straw, and he could hear the screaming of the animals trapped within. He could only wish that Jeyne and her orphans were safe and will be safe for a long time as the war would not end with this battle.

As he looked forth he saw the eastern sky grow pale. The air was swirling with smoke, the back wall of the stables was a sheet of fire ground to roof. The horses and donkeys were kicking and rearing and screaming. The poor animals, Asher thought.

The long column of riders moved between the burning tents toward the Crossroads Inn. The riders reined up in front of the inn before them.

"Who's got your command?" Asher asked.

"I do." The reflections of burning stable glimmered dully on the armor of his warhorse as the others parted to let him pass. He was a tall man with a red salmon on his shield, and ornate scrollwork crawling across his red steel breastplate. His greathelm was adorned with a leaping fish crest. When he took it off, a face bold and strong eyed his ragged party. "Ser Myles Mooton, brother of Lord William Mooton of Maidenpool, Commander of the royal forces of King Rhaegar Targaryen." He had a high voice, fit for a commander. "In his name, I command you to lay your arms down and surrender."

"Can't do," Asher told him. "I follow a different king."

"There is but one king in this realm," Ser Myles said. "Drop your weapons and show us you are no traitors."

"Traitors, my arse," Bill Dustin said and rushed for Myles Mooton, limping slightly.

Mooton waved his men off when they moved to interfere. He blocked Kill Bill's savage slash to his head with his sword and smashed the fish crested greathelm against Bill's head, knocking him down.

"I wish for no more unnecessary bloodshed," Ser Myles said more to them than to Bill Dustin. "The day is ours. Yield."

Asher eyed him coolly. "Told you, can't do."

The knight with the skulls and lips shield who killed Longbraid rode his horse forward. ""Surrender, in the name of the king!" he said. "Or die."

"Are you deaf, man," Asher told him. "Did you not hear a single I spoke right now."

"I command you once more, in King Rhaegar's name, surrender and spare us of this unnecessary massacre," said Ser Myles.

For a long moment Asher considered. Then he spat. "Don't think I will."

"So be it. You defy the king's command, and so proclaim yourselves rebels."

"Do your worst," Asher shouted back.

Ser Myles wore his helm and mounted his horse. "Kill any man who holds a weapon and spare anyone who yields," he told his men. "I thought to-"

A sudden and terrible sound interrupted him. From the ridge to the east, the sound of the warhorn rang out. The Targaryen men, preparing to charge at them, stopped at that sound to look for the news in the dawn.

All that heard that sound trembled. Back from the ridges in the east the echoes came, blast upon blast, as if on every cliff and hill a mighty herald stood. But on the yard his men looked up, listening with wonder; for the echoes did not die. Ever the horn-blasts wound on among the hills; nearer now and louder they answered one to another, blowing fierce and free.

There suddenly upon a ridge appeared a rider, clad in pale white armor, shining in the rising sun. Over the low hills the horns were sounding. Behind him, hastening down the long slopes, were a thousand men on armored mounts; their swords and spears were in their hands. Amid them rode a man tall and strong. His armor was the blue of skies. As he came to the high road's brink, he set to his lips a great black horn and blew a ringing blast.

"For Arryn!" the Riders shouted. "For the Vale!"

"Lord Jon!" said Asher. "Lord Arryn's come to save us!"

"Come in time," said Roger beside him. 'This is wizardry!"

"The falcon! The falcon!" the Riders shouted. 'The falcon has arisen and comes back to war. For the Eyrie!'

And with that shout Lord Jon Arryn came. His horse was white as snow, white was his shield, and his sword was adorned with a dozen gems. At his right hand was the knight in pale blue armor, his heir, and in his left was a big man armored in brown, behind him rode the Knights of the Vale. The blue banners of House Arryn fluttered everywhere. Light sprang in the sky. Night departed.

'For Arryn!' With a cry and a great noise they charged. Down from the high road they roared, along the slopes they swept, and they drove through the royal host of Rhaegar Targaryen as a wind among grass. Behind them from the south came the stern cries of men issuing from the woods, driving for the enemy. Edgar and his riders. The Targaryen men that were left in the crossroads scattered all around. And the sound of blowing horns echoed in the hills.

On they rode, Lord Jon and his mighty knights. Captains and champions fell or fled before them. No man withstood them, not even the brave Ser Myles or the Knight of Skulls and Kisses. Their backs were to the swords and spears of the Knights of Vale and their faces to the river or the trees. Asher laughed in joy as great wonder had come upon them with the rising of the day.

So Lord Jon rode from his high road and clove his path to the crossroads. There the company halted. Light grew bright about them. Shafts of the sun flared above the eastern hills and glimmered on their spears and swords.

Darkness was under them. Between the woods and the Trident now scattered the proud host of Rhaegar, in terror of the Lord Jon Arryn and his knights. They streamed down from the kingsroad until all above the destroyed barricade was empty of them.

* * *

 _ **Author Notes: So the Knights of the Vale come to the rescue in their trademark last moment saving the day manner. I hope you guys like it. Leave a comment and let me know what you think. I would love to hear your thoughts. As always thanks for reading my story. Have a nice day and stay safe.**_


	69. Chapter 69

Myles

Weary, Myles set his mount on forward. Weary of the battle, weary of the defeat. I can't go on like this, I can't. But his hands and feet spurred his horse on. Little by little the remainder of his once great host was moving south to join Prince Aegon's host at Stoney Sept. They were all tired he could see, but that didn't stop them from moving. There's no other choice for them. It's either this or be left behind for anyone who might be pursuing them.

When he looked behind he could see no one behind him. The air was heavy and the sky cloudy and grey. Rain was pouring down on them heavily, so unlike the perfect clear day when he had crept upon the Stark army at the Crossroads. He looked down as he remembered the day and the battle.

It would not stop, the rain. The downpour has been continuous from last night, so much so that his boots were covered in mud. His horse was well lathered, riding hard to get away from the knights of the Vale. His men were dragging behind him. The disarrayed army which followed behind him looked like some migrating commonfolk in search for safety.

Every fourth or fifth foot Myles would turn back in his saddle, reaching down and tugging up his swordbelt and watch intently for any army that could come chasing after them. At least he had not lost the sword on the fight, giving a chance to fight still.

Richard was riding close beside him. Their men were all stumbling around them, swords and spears in hand, ready to fend off anyone. They rarely stopped to rest, gathering beside rocks and roots of trees to spend the night. Most of his men had survived, a good part of it, only because they had broke and ran before the chivalry of the Vale.

Tired, Myles led his men forth as quick as he could. They were good and safe linking up with Prince Aegon's and his dragon. Pursuing the Stark or Arryn army from the Crossroads was a bad notion, especially with the men he now had with him. Richard had agreed as much. Let the Arrys hold the Trident for now, it would turn around for them when they come back with a dragon.

The journey to Stoney Sept felt longer than the one they had done while marching North for the Crossroads. The rain made it even worse, making the roads muddy and slippery and soaking everything that they had, clothes and food and fire.

He had made it clear for his men that anyone who straggled behind will be left behind. He could not risk to lose the rest of his men in order to get a good night's sleep. All his men knew that, the thousands who were left. They had been no less than a good eight thousand when they fled the Crossroads, maybe more, but some had wandered off in the night, a few wounded had bled to death and others straggled behind unable to keep up with the army. Often, Myles put his wounded men on horse back unwilling to leave the men who'd fought for him in the hands of fate, more like in the hands of wolves and crows. He took garrons from the healthy men and gave them to the wounded, organized the walkers, and set the mounted knights to guard their flanks and rear. He would have marched hard if his horses and men were stronger. They could be behind us. Nothing encourages an army better than the sight of a foe running broken before them.

His clothes under the fine armor was soaked riding through the rain. The rain had managed to drench the hose, the thick quilted coat that padded him against the cold steel of his armor, the fine surcoat with the red salmon of House Mooton upon the chest and even the layers of smallclothes beneath. His cloak did little to keep the cold away as it too was soaked in the rain, the triple-layered cloak with a salmon pin made of ruby that fastened tight under his chins. Its hood flopped forward over his forehead. The blood which had covered his armor and wool-and-leather gloves had been completely washed off by the rain.

The rain dropped down around him. Sometimes it fell as a soft drizzle from a clear white sky, and sometimes from a black, but that was all that remained of day and night. His shoulders were in agony from the weight of the armor and tiredness. He ought to take it off, but the thought of any oncoming men made him think twice of it. He ought to be careful and cautious at least until he reached his allies. Bold and comfort would not serve any of them now.

If only the Arryns were late for a day or two he might have held the Trident for King Rhaegar now. . . except it wasn't, though, and it was no good wishing. Lord Jon had come, swift and strong, and in mighty numbers. It seemed as if the entire chivalry of the Vale was with him. He still remembered the way their banners had fluttered in the light of the Dawn. There was the bronze banner which displayed the black iron studs bordered with the runes of the First Men of House Royce, the six silver bells of Belmore, the broken black wheel, on a green field of House Waynwood, the five silver arrows of House Hunter fanned on a brown field, the red castle of the Redforts, the three black ravens of House Corbray, all three in flight, holding three red hearts, on a white field, the nine black stars of Templeton on a gold saltire, on a black field, the cresting sea-green wave of House Upcliff, on a black field, even the yellow tower of House Grafton, burning, on a black pile, on a flame-red field who had once fought for the Targaryens when Lord Arryn refused to obey King Aerys' orders to kill his wards, instead choosing to defend them and rose in rebellion against the king. And there were dozen other banners known to him with them. For every banner he knew there were half a dozen of which he never knew. His army was so focused on the surrounded Starks that they were never ready to meet the great charge of the Knights of the Vale. It would've been a bloody massacre had he not retreated.

The hooves of his horse made a sucking sound as they passed through the mud. The print of it's leg left back on the mud where the horse set his feet. Off to the left and right, his men were spread through the glade of trees, swords and spears in hand, trying to shield them from the rainfall. When he turned his head he could see them, slipping silent through the wood, cursing the rains. He had positioned his men into a ringed mass of spears, with the strong, able ones forming the outside while the wounded and the swordsmen were positioned inside the strong, steel ring. The knights on their horses accompanied him in groups positioned on the front, rear and flanks, ready to fend off anyone who might come for them in any direction.

Yesterday Myles had sent a good company of outriders on swift and strong horses to Prince Aegon telling him of the course of their journey. They were only a few days' ride away from Stoney Sept but looking at their slow pace it wouldn't surprise him if it takes a whole week for them to reach there. He intended to take their rest this night and then continue on their march, full-bellied, the next day.

He had thought to return to Maidenpool after the retreat, to gather their strength there and then once well rested they could march forth to Riverrun to meet the rebels there. When word from Prince Aegon's host nearing Stoney Sept by way of the Goldroad the plans had changed into linking up with his army at Stoney Sept.

It was a sound plan, holding up at Stoney Sept. The position gave them a central land to move against any army which would try to go for King's Landing. Though Myles doubted that would happen anytime soon. Ser Garlan Tyrell was bleeding the Riverlands as much as he could and both the Born King and Lord Jon Arryn would be busy trying to help Riverrun before they might move for King's Landing. Lord Robert and his Stormlords were blocked in the Stormlands with Lord Randyll Tarly and Princess Daenerys to their front. He cannot see a way where an army might make for King's Landing amongst all this.

Unless Lord Tywin makes a move. So far the Lion of Casterly Rock has not yet declared for anyone, not to the rebels or the crown. He hoped that it ought to be the case for the rest of the war or better if he answered his grace's call for help against these rebels.

If not, then he could not say which was the worst, either the fact that they would have another whole kingdom for them to deal with or the fact that it meant more battles and more deaths. Already there's been thousands died in this war, barely begun yet bloody. Thousands had died on the Crossroads, men from his side and the other alike. They had died all around him, and certainly more must have died after. He'd seen some of them dying in his remaining party. They had no choice but to leave them behind. He stared upward at the pale white sky as raindrops drifted down upon his face and his chest and his head. Should I find the same fate as any of them, I'll do so gladly and if they speak of me they'll have to say I died a loyal man to my king and I did my duty. There is naught a better death than that for a knight.

Now though, his thoughts were more on his men than some glorious death. They had all been his responsibility. He had failed them in the Crossroads but he had no notion to do so again any time soon. He had wanted to go and fight for his friend and king more than anything. Go and fight, he did and cost the lives of thousands. He could still remember the men he'd killed that day. All of that had led to nothing. The Crossroads was lost.

They had come very close to capturing it in the King's name. When word of the northern army in the Crossroads were brought to him by his scouts, Myles had thought to take it before the Arrys could arrive. That would have given them a huge strategic advantage in keeping the rebel armies away from one another while Prince Aegon put an end to the legend of the Born King.

They'd rode hard and fast up the Kingsroad and waited for the night to launch their attack upon the northmen when they'd least expected it. The camp was well arranged that there were archers up in high towers to alert their camp. Myles was forced to stay away and wait until night fell upon to cover them in the cloak of darkness. When dusk finally arrived, the archer towers were the first ones to fall neutralizing any hope of alarms for the northmen. He'd given the command to Richard to take down the sentries and archers and his friend had done that flawlessly. With the element of surprise they had overwhelmed the resting camp in no time.

Thousands had died at the Crossroads that day, good men and true, if it wasn't for Lord Jon and his knights there would have been more as the men of the north were too stubborn to yield. He needs only to think of the old man, covered in blood and injured still came for him all the while surrounded by his army, to know that they wouldn't have yielded. The battle was almost done and the day was theirs, almost. His men were only a moment away from capturing the Crossroads in Rhaegar's name.

When the horns blew Myles had been preparing to deliver the final blow to the northmen. He thought he was dreaming them at first, but when he looked east towards the Highroad he saw them. Dawn was arriving from the east and so had the Knights of the Vale. All around him his men had turned their heads off to the east watching for the sounds of worhorns. The warhorn had fallen silent by then, and the Crossroads rang with shouted commands and the clatter of steel.

For a moment he had stunned to see them there, right at the time. His men were more focused in scattering the northmen around that they were not ready to hold against a cavalry charge of armoured knights as fine as the Knights of the Vale. The rising sun was against their eyes almost making them blind with all the shimmering steel armours before them. His command had come late but not too late, ordering his pikemen to get back in lines and make a shield wall first to defend against the cavalry charge. But once he saw the scattered northern riders rallying in the rear he knew that the battle was good as lost.

There was nothing to do there but retreat, else his men would've been butchered in cold blood. Their time was done there, and so they were forced to retreat. It had taken a good deal of time for his scattered men to regroup together. Most of them joined them all along the way but some were entirely lost to the lands.

"Feeling sleepy," a voice asked from beside.

"No, I'm not asleep," Myles told Richard. "I was just remembering."

"You shouldn't take it hard on yourself, Myles," his friend said. "If you want we can rest for some time."

"We cannot risk it," Myles looked at him. Richard rode beside him, his armour and clothes wet with rain. "There's no resting in the middle of nowhere."

"Night is falling, Myles," Richard said and looked over to the west sky. "The men are tired. Even you look like you could get some rest."

"I'm alright, Richard." Myles tugged his cloak close to him. He looked around and saw that night was finally setting about and they were out in the open. That wouldn't do. He must find a good place before setting camp. "We'll call it in for the night when we find a good spot."

The night before they had left for the battle, Myles and Richard had spent a good time like the old times, Myles remembered smiling. For a moment they were not the commanders of the Royal forces of King Rhaegar but just a couple of squires who dreamed of knighthood and glory. They had always been the closest of friends, winning their knighthood from Rhaegar together when their time came. For a moment he missed those good old days and found himself wanting them back.

"My lords," Watt interrupted them. "We have found a flat ground by the woods around God's Eye to make camp." Myles had sent the tall man with a company to find a perfect place for them to make camp.

"Very well then," Myles said to Watt. "Get the men ready to set up camp."

"At once, my lord," Watt replied.

The man moved on, towards the men shouting commands. Richard looked at the wound at his upper arm. "That's seems a serious injury," he said touching the cloth covered wound. "You should get it cleaned and dressed, Myles."

Myles nodded. "Do you think Prince Aegon is already at Stoney Sept?"

Richard shrugged in his saddle. "If it's just the prince and his dragon, he would've been there in no time, but with a huge host behind him, I don't think they would reach there before us."

"Did you get any ravens from King's Landing," he heard Richard ask.

"No," Myles admitted. "Though I think there will be one."

Richard nodded as he trotted his horse forward slowly. "Rhaegar will not like it," he said. "Not even a single bit."

"I know," Myles said. "What are we supposed to do? The Arryns were too much for us to deal with not to mention the northmen."

"He will not be ready to hear our reasoning, Myles," Richard said.

"Probably," said Myles. "He is a changed man, not the one we knew."

"Those bits of prophecies and parchments pushed him to the path of the red priest too much for my liking," his friend said.

"Mmm," Myles admitted. "Did Ned's son really write a letter to Rhaegar?"

"Aye," Richard chuckled. "You should have read it. Rhaegar has ordered for the letter to be sewn into a banner and hung it behind his throne. He has vowed to bring it down only when Stark is felled. The boy has got some balls, I'll grant him that."

"I heard of it in Maidenpool," Myles said. "I could scarcely believe it. The smallfolk claimed that Rhaegar pissed himself reading the letter alone."

"That's just a fishwife's tale," Richard said. "But Stark was bold with his words claiming the king to be a criminal and to deal with him as such."

"He did what?" Myles asked, shocked.

"You heard me," his friend said. "He did say that Rhaegar was a criminal."

"I never knew he was that bold," Myles said.

"Well, he is Arthur's nephew after all."

"That he is." They arrived to the flat ground where his men were already working hard to put up the tents and set up the camp for their garrison.

It was a fine place, well set and surrounded by trees which would give them enough cover to defend it from foragers and foes alike. To one side the God's Eye provided a natural barrier and the woods around them made a ringwall giving them a best spot to defend.

So when the camps were finally set, Myles went inside his tent to sleep with the night still fairly young. He had been awake for too long and tired beyond anything. Sleep came easily and the night passed in peace.

The next morning they wasted no time. They rode in the predawn chill with the rain drizzling around them. Yet even as they were riding forth in the rain, Myles was being careful about the way they passed.

They set out through the rain at a hard gallop. Only when they were safely away from the sight of God's Eye, he slowed them to a trot. It was a miserable slow journey after that with the muddy ground making it hard for the horses and men alike to rush past it. The rain still soaked through his clothes and made it cling to his body.

The rain had finally stopped by next morning as dawn light was seeping through from the eastern sky. And once again Myles set his men for hard riding. They stopped only as long as it took to feed and water the horses, and then they were off again. This time he was spared to look behind his back continuously wary of any pursuit. After the third night he no longer rushed his men and mostly continued in a stable pace as they were nearing the town of Stoney Sept.

The morning they reached Stoney Sept, they were clustered around a stream a short ways down the hills encircling the town. The horses had drunk their fill of the cold water, and were grazing on fresh blades of green grass that grew around the stream. Set Boros Blount and a guardsmam wearing House Blount's colours huddled close, talking to Richard. Watt stood with Richard, leaning on his spear with the Targaryen banner swaying from the tip. Nearby, Ser Elwood Harte sat oiling his longsword, running the whetstone by the edges at times to sharpen it.

Stoney Sept was the biggest town in the riverlands and it too was touched by this war. More recent battles had been fought here as well, Myles thought from the look of the place. The town gates were made of raw new wood; outside the walls a pile of charred planks remained to tell what had happened to the old ones.

The town was closed up tight. Myles could see the captain of the gate eying them warily. "Open the doors in the King's name," He shouted to him.

"You'll find nothing but peaceful folk living here, my lords," he said from the gatehouse. "We are hiding no army here."

"That is for us to see, old man," Richard said. "If you're hiding no one there, you'd have no trouble in opening the gates and letting us in."

"I've told you, there's no one here." The captain did not wait for an answer. "Let the folk live in peace. They don't need your war."

"Same as we don't want to trouble them in any way," said Myles. "I am Ser Myles Mooton, brother of Lord William of Maidenpool. All we need from you is safe beds for some nights. We will give you no trouble. You have my word for it."

The captain eyed them for a long moment and then disappeared. A few heartbeats later the gates of Stoney Sept opened before them.

Myles rode between Richard and Watt as his men moved down the streets in their horses and with their steels sheathed. He could see the sept on its hill, from which the town took it's name, and below it a stout strong holdfast of grey stone that looked much too small for such a big town. But almost all houses seemed deserted, and he saw no people. "Are all the townfolk dead?" He asked the captain.

"Only shy." Richard pointed out two bowmen on a roof, and some boys with sooty faces crouched in the rubble of an alehouse. Farther on, a baker threw open a shuttered window and shouted down to the captain. The sound of his voice brought more people out of hiding, and Stoney Sept slowly seemed to come to life around them.

In the market square at the town's heart stood a fountain in the shape of a leaping trout, spouting water into a shallow pool. Women were filling pails and flagons there. The only sound in the market square was the splash of falling water and the buzzing of flies.

On the east side of the market square stood a modest inn with whitewashed walls and broken windows. Half its roof had burnt off recently, but the hole had been patched over. Above the door hung a wooden shingle painted as a peach, with a big bite taken out of it. They dismounted at the stables sitting catty-corner, and the captain bellowed for grooms.

When the horses were tended and taken care of, the captain took them to the holdfast by the sept. There Myles, Richard and the others took residence for the time being till Prince Aegon arrived with his might host.

They still had their supply lines left so when they dined Myles called for the townfolk to join them. These are the people of his own land, he could not just let them starve. "How well are you fixed for food?" Myles asked the captain as they ate together.

"Not so bad as we were. Our Huntsman brought in a flock o' sheep, and there's been some grains left in our stores. The harvest wasn't burned south o' the river. Course, there's plenty want to take what we got. Reachmen one day, westermen the next."

"Westermen?" Myles frowned. "Are you sure?"

"Pretty much. Seemed like westermen along with a group of sellswords. They come off to fight the reachmen when they are here and run away once they are chased off."

"Did you see any banners-" Myles was asking as a blow of a warhorn broke him off. Not again, he thought as he reached for his sword.

"Riders!"

The shriek came from outside the common room of the holdfast. One of his men at the gates rushed through the doors inside to inform them of the riders.

In a quick second, everyone of his men in the room were reaching for swords and spears and armours and chainmail. Myles Mooton was the first to be done. "Ring the bells of the town," he shouted. "Tell the townfolk to bar their doors and not come out until the bells are quieted."

He sprang to his feet and rushed outside. Richard joined him on the way and so did the others.

"I hear them!" Richard called out. Myles turned his head to listen, and there it was: hoofbeats, a legion of horses, coming nearer. Suddenly everyone was moving, reaching for weapons, running to their mounts.

Ser Balman Byrch at the gate came springing back to them. He stopped breathless in front of Myles and the others. "An army of men, my lord," he said, breathless. "Hundreds of horses and as much as men."

"Did they bear any banners?"

"They do, my lord," he said. "But it's hard to say with the distance. All looks red."

Red, no it can't be. At least it isn't the Arryns. "Richard get the cavalry around here," he told his friend. "We face them in this street. Get the archers on the roofs of buildings either side. Men at arms hold the buildings and use them for your advantage. Watt take the foot with you. Riders with me." Myles unsheathed his longsword and raised it in his hand. Around them his men were all climbing over the buildings to get on high vantage points. They are well staying up there as the narrow streets of the town were filling in with his mounted riders.

The hoofbeats were louder now. He could hear the battering ram pounding against the gates of Stoney Sept. All around them the bells rang, alerting the smallfolk of the upcoming battle and so they would know to lock their doors.

His mounted knights and riders formed up in ranks behind him and Richard.

The creak of the wood was so clear now, splintering and splitting. It would give out soon enough, Myles thought. A heartbeat later, the gates broke and the riders were on them.

The men came filling inside the town like a rushing torrent. He could see the red banners, bearing the golden lion of House Lannister. At their head was a huge man, the biggest man that Myles Mooton had ever seen. He need to take only one look to know that it was Lord Tywin's Mad dog who led them. The Mountain That Rides dwarfed all the knights around him. He was well over seven feet tall, closer to eight, with massive shoulders and arms thick as the trunks of small trees. His destrier seemed a pony in between his armored legs, and the great two handed sword he carried was as big as a man.

Myles could hear the twang of bowstrings as his archers let fly from both sides of the street through where the Lannister riders came. Almost all of them found their targets and had a number of rushing riders fall. But none of it stopped Gregor Clegane. The man was knighted by Rhaegar himself, he should be ashamed to take steel against him.

Despite all the men his archers felled, the Lannister riders came thundering, lean brave men in fine armor, faces hidden behind barred halfhelms. In gloved hands were clutched all manner of weapons: longswords and lances and maces and spiked morningstars. Another knight, a stout man with a manticore on his shield, and gilded scrollwork crawling across his steel breastplate led the foot men behind the mounted riders.

Myles shouted and rode to meet the Mountain, with Richard and the others beside him, screaming some wordless battle cry.

He heard the screams of frightened horses and the crash of metal on metal. Richard's sword raked across the naked face of a rider, and Myles plunged through the Lannister riders like a whirlwind, cutting down foes right and left. He could see Gregor Clegane hammering at his men, swinging his monstrous greatsword with one hand and directing his horse with the other. Myles soon came against a knight in a spiked helm on his way to the Mountain. He fought him as well, their horses dancing round each other as they traded blow for blow. When the knight lost his reins to control his horse, Myles shoved his sword through the visor of his helm. When he pulled his sword out, it was drenched with blood to the hilt and the lifeless body of the knight sagged off the saddle to be overrun by dozen of raging hooves. He saw an arrow find a guardsman rushing for him, striking right at the throat of the man. When he opened his mouth to scream, only blood came out. By the time he fell, Myles moved to fight again someone else.

He moved off from the swing of a morningstar and turned his horse back. As the rider turned to come back at him, swinging his morningstar, Myles swung his sword while ducking down low against the neck of his garron. His blade caught the charging horse in the throat with a meaty thunk, angling upward, and Myles almost lost his grip as the animal screamed and collapsed. He managed to wrench the sword free and hold his seat in the saddle. The other rider was less fortunate. Horse and rider crashed to the ground in a tangle. Myles trotted back to the fallen knight and lowered his sword. "Yield," the fallen knight cried. "Mercy."

And just like that he went in search for another foe. All around him the battle was raging. Men were fighting in the streets and alleys, even on the rooftops. The septons were still ringing the bells, letting the townfolk know that the battle was not done yet. He saw Richard unhorsed, fighting the manticore knight on the roof of the Peach and kicked him roughly off the roof with a loud thud. When the manticore knight landed upon the ground, the sound could be heard even over the loud chaos of battle.

After that, things ran together. The dusk was full of shouts and screams and heavy with the scent of blood, and the world had turned to chaos. Arrows hissed past his ear and clattered off the armours and stone alike. Myles moved on to the center of the battlefield where the fighting was thick and intense, sliding his horse smoothly in between the rush of riders and darting out his sword to hew at the arms and heads of passing enemies.

More men were mounting up every moment. And others were being unhorsed. There was only one way to decide this battle. He could still see the Mountain clear in the sea of men. He looked a giant among children, fighting his men.

Soon enough Myles came against the Mountain that Rides. His longsword was no match for the monstrosity Clegane held. Each of Gregor Clegane's strikes were hammering against his sword and it sent vibrations down right to his bones. It was all he could do to not lose the grip on his sword. If he did, he was done for good. He danced around the Mountain for a while, of how long he couldn't say for sure. The Mountain had it hard to swing his enormous sword with just one hand and his control on his mount was waning as well. Myles has his sword hit Clegane more than once but Gregor was totally covered in steel that his hits meant nothing to him. He was still fighting him when a ground shaking roar split the evening air.

A shadow rippled across his face.

The tumult and the shouting died. Twelve thousand voices stilled. Every eye turned skyward. A warm wind brushed Myles' cheeks, and above the beating of his heart he heard the sound of wings. The men fighting around him dashed for shelter. Even Ser Gregor Clegane froze where he stood.

Above them all the dragon turned, dark against the sun. His scales were green, his eyes and horns and spinal plates polished bronze. Upon its back sat Prince Aegon steering his dragon. The green dragon flapped his wings once as he swept back above the sands, and the sound was like a clap of thunder. The men raised their heads, watching in terror and wonder alike... and flame engulfed them, green fire shot with bronze. Myles felt the wash of heat thirty feet away. The dying scream of men sounded so harsh in his ears. He must have burned some of my men as well, Myles thought bitterly.

Everywhere men sought to get away from the dragon and not all of them did. The green dragon was as deadly with its teeth and claws as it was with its fire. It was quick on the ground as well, making short work of anyone who had hopes of escaping out the gates of the town.

Soon the dragonfire started to burn the buildings of the town as well. Hundreds of the Mountains riders died in a single stroke and Ser Gregor Clegane ran, broke before Aegon Targaryen and his green dragon.


	70. Chapter 70

Rhaegar

A thousand ships!" The messenger's rat brown hair was tousled and unwashed, and the torchlight showed his fine face flush and ragged and windburnt. "Most of the men are lost and so are the ships. Those who survived were taken prisoners by Ser Baelor."

"My son," asked Mace Tyrell. "Loras. Is he alright?"

"Ser Loras fought valiantly, my Lord," the messenger said, "but he was captured by the overwhelming Hightower knights."

"Your Grace, this must be answered fiercely!" Tyrell's words rang off the rafters and echoed through the cavernous throne room.

Seated on his Iron Throne, Rhaegar could feel a growing tightness in her neck. How many betrayals and backstabbing should I have to face in my life, he wondered. He should never have trusted Lord Leyton. The Others take him and his family. Little did kinship help him here at Oldtown. The Knight of the Flowers captured and Ser Jorah Mormont possibly dead, Leyton Hightower has damned any kinship he had with them in favour of his northern grandson.

"All our ships?" Jon looked at the messenger doubtfully. "That couldn't be. No lord commands such a great fleet to destroy our great Royal Navy. Certainly we outnumbered the Hightower ships ten to one. Our ships wouldn't have found it hard to capture Oldtown should the need arise."

"Mayhaps the northern fleet has made it's way south," said Petyr Baelish, stroking his pointed beard, calculating, the king could see through that. "That, or we've got ourselves a false messenger."

The torches on the back wall threw the long, barbed shadow of the Iron Throne halfway to the doors. The far end of the hall was lost in darkness, and Rhaegar could not but feel that the shadows were closing around him too. My enemies are everywhere, and my friends are useless. He had only to glance at her councillors to know that; only his hand and Aurane Waters seemed awake. The others had been roused from bed by servants and guards alike pounding on their doors, and stood there rumpled and confused. Outside the night was black and still. The castle and the city slept. Not the kingsguard, though. Not the White Bull or Ser Oswell Whent who stood at the foot of his throne, two pale shadow with a longswords on their hips. Bezzaro was away when he had needed him the most. He wondered if the red priest had seen all this in his flames.

"Even with the northern fleet free, it isn't enough," Waters pointed out Baelish. "It lacks the strength to match our Royal fleet. Combined with the might of the Arbor at sea, no one could have opposed us."

"What of the Greyjoys?" asked the Master of Ships. "The Ironborn are a force to be reckoned with at sea. They also have larger ships as well. Lord Balon's Great Kraken and the warships of the Iron Fleet were made for battle, not for raids. They are the equal of our lesser war galleys in speed and strength, and most are better crewed and captained. The ironmen live their whole lives at sea."

"The ironmen have not dared raid the Reach since Dagon Greyjoy sat the Seastone Chair," the king said. "It couldn't be them."

"It sorcery," The messenger whispered. He stood with his hands hidden up his sleeves, shivering. "Lord Leyton did it. The crown of the High Tower burned green and Lord Leyton wielded the waves-"

"This frightened fool has gone mad," said Mace Tyrell. "It cannot be. No one can control the seas. Surely this is some fishwife's tale."

So did the dragons of the old belong in tales until my sister and Bezzaro brought them back. If what the man says about Oldtown is true then it must be dealt with at once. Bezzaro could deal with it in no time despite what the messenger says about Leyton Hightower.

"Tales or not," said Rhaegar, "Hightower must be dealt with at once. It may have started with Oldtown but it will not stop there. Our navy first, then holdfasts, castles, large and small will fall even Highgarden might be threatened. I'll not have a war in my own domains when I have a dozen rebels all around me."

Jon nodded. "House Hightower holds great power in the reach," he said. "Lord Leyton's uncle is the High Septon as well. Should he wish though he could turn the entire kingdom against us as the Faith did to Maegor the Cruel."

"Get the High Septon under our control," Petyr Baelish said with a smile. "He is within our reach. And there is only little he could do from the depth of the black cells." The king did not like the Master of the Coin's tone or the smile which accompanied his words.

"The High Septon speaks for the Seven here on earth. Strike at him, and you are striking at the gods themselves," Rhaegar said. "The man opposed my marriage to Lyanna despite the fact that I was his king. If we dare lay a hand on him now, we'll be facing a Faith Militant uprising within our own gates."

That would doubtless be catastrophe. The Faith nearly destroyed Maegor's rule when the king had defied and insulted the gods. To have another of the kind when an open rebellion was raging across his realm, it would doubtless destroy the realm.

"Deal with Oldtown, I say," Jon said, "before Lord Leyton has the chance to even think about doing something as such."

"How would the Lord hand suggest us to accomplish that, without sufficient ships?" asked Waters. "Our fleet is done. Without cutting off Oldtown's contact with the sea any siege you propose will be of little use."

Rhaegar saw the truth of it. Without blocking off Oldtown from the sea they could any talk for siege was vain. It was the presence of a fleet which could keep Oldtown from being resupplied by sea.

The king frowned. "Jon. Get some necessary gold and good men. On the morrow you shall leave to hire sellsails from beyond the narrow sea and gather my friends from the East. It seems as if I would need their help now more than ever."

"Your grace," Young maester Pylos said quietly, "I beg you to reconsider. It isn't wise to bring in a foreign army against our own-"

"Our own," Rhaegar stopped him sharply. "Our own? The ones who are fighting to overthrow me and mine? They are not mine. The Born King, Robert, Jon Arryn and Tully, they are nothing but traitors and rebels and I'll deal with them as such."

Pylos shrunk back into his seat as if he was slapped across the face.

"I need all the warships you can get. Carracks, wine cogs, trading galleys, and whalers it doesn't matter hire them as well. Get the grand Maesters of Essos with all their unsullied and sellswords and ferry them across Blackwater Bay as soon as you can. Let them know that they can have all the riches they want as per our deal."

"Your Grace what of Oldtown?" asked Mace Tyrell.

"Muster the men you have with you here in King's Landing," said Rhaegar. "Surely Highgarden must have known of this before us."

"It does," said the Master of Laws. "My son Willas has sent word that he is gathering men to defend our lands. Willas can raise ten thousand men within a fortnight and twice that in a moon's turn."

"Highgarden sits above the Mander," Jon reminded Tyrell. "Don't let your son rush his gathered forces straight for Oldtown. Should the Hightowers make their way into the heart of the Reach by the Mander it will leave Highgarden undefended."

"Willas sits strongly in Highgarden," Lord Tyrell replied. "He has a good host around him to defend our lands."

"Good," Rhaegar said. "Gather your forces then and march for Highgarden. Join with your son and move for Oldtown."

"Your Grace," Aurane Waters said, "without the ships a siege is useless."

Rhaegar smiled. "There will be no siege." He looked to the young maester. ""It will take half a year or more to starve Oldtown into submission, as a siege wont to do. I will sack Oldtown or burn it to ground if I have to. Pylos, send a raven to my sister in Stormlands. We have need of her dragon here. This audience is at an end. Jon, a word."

The Hand of the King stopped as he got up from his seat. Rhaegar waited for the others to walk out of the Throne room.

Dawn was still several hours away when Rhaegar and his Hand Jon Connington slipped out the king's door behind the Iron Throne. Ser Gerald and Ser Oswell flanked him, torch in hand and Jon strolled along beside him. "If it please Your Grace," Jon said, "perhaps you ought to send someone else on this journey. My place is to be with you. The Hand of the King should be with the king. Surely we could find some loyal man to carry on this duty you've bestowed upon me."

"Loyalty is very hard to find nowadays, my friend," Rhaegar told him. "The people I could trust are very few. I need you to go to the east on my behalf, Jon. I don't trust anyone else but you on this."

"I will not fail you, Your Grace."

"I have no doubt that you will, my friend," Rhaegar smiled. "This will not be the end of the House of Dragon, Jon. We are winning some battles. When you come back with our allies from the east we will win this war." That seemed to be case for him. There had been another battle in the Riverlands, a savage one. The Lannisters had come down from the West in their hundreds and Myles and Richard had sent them back running with their tails between their legs with the help of his son. The Seven had granted them a great victory at Stoney Sept that the bells were rung for days in glee for their victory.

Garlan Tyrell had his hands tightened around the riverlords, to the point where none of them even managed to hinder him. Robert and his brothers were stuck in the Stormlands and were delayed more and more by the storms and rains. The Stormlands was living up to its name. If the gods were good, the storm would keep Robert and his Stormlords well occupied. Stark was away from his allies one way or another and the Legend of the Dragonslayer might come to an end once he faces the dragons of House Targaryen in open battle.

"You're a good friend, Jon," the king said. "A loyal and trusted sword. When you return we will have a victory feast."

"You will have your ships and allies, Your Grace" Jon Connington said. "I swear that on my honor as a Connington and as your loyal friend."


	71. Chapter 71

**Garlan**

Garlan Tyrell woke up in darkness to the blare of trumpets. His squire was already stirring up in his bed, clutching for any arms to be had.

Hastily, he sat up and threw back the blanket. The horns called through the dawn, wild and urgent, a cry that said hurry hurry hurry. He heard shouts, the clatter of spears, the whicker of horses, though nothing yet that spoke to him of fighting. "The watch guard's trumpets," he told his squire in general. "Run out, Josh. Get the Lords for battle assembly. Lord Hoster has finally found the time to fight us."

His squire looked at him with wide white eyes. After a moment though the boy ran out of the tent putting on his tunic and boots.

Groaning, Garlan lurched to his feet and pushed his way to the basin and splashed the water over his face. Wisps of pale fog drifted through the morning light, long white fingers off the river. Outside men and horses blundered through the chill of dawn; saddles were being cinched, wagons loaded, fires extinguished. The trumpets blew again: hurry hurry hurry. Knights vaulted onto snorting coursers while men-at-arms buckled their sword belts as they ran.

When his squire came back, the boy was panting heavily. "Did you tell the lords?" he asked. The boy nodded hastily. Garlan gave him a smile and a light pat on his shoulder. "Good lad. Now get my armor," he said, "and be quick about it." Ser Tanton Fossoway was the first one to come trotting out of the mists, already armored and ahorse, shield in hand. His shield bore the red apple of House Fossoway of Cider Hall, and his yellow cloak was fastened with gold and garnets in the shape of an apple. "Do you know what's happened?" Garlan asked him.

"Lord Hoster stole a march on us," Ser Tanton said. "He crept down by the Red Fork in the night, and now his host is less than a mile north of here, forming up in battle array."

Hurry, the trumpets called, hurry hurry hurry.

"Get Edgerran and Arys. Parmen Crane and the others as well. See that the our knights are ready to form." He ducked back inside his tent. He rummaged through his chests and took out his padded green doublet with the rose of Tyrell stitched upon the front. Garlan pulled on his leather breeches boots as well.

By the time he was dressed, his squire had laid out his armor. A fine suit of heavy plate, expertly crafted and gilded gold as the golden rose of Highgarden. His greatcloak was sewn from green samite and was held in place by a matched pair of roses made of soft yellow gold nestled in a bed of delicate green jade leaves. His green cloak sported the twin roses as well. The green enameled lobstered greaves and gauntlets and bracers went on next, all ornate with gold vines filled with thorns and roses. The buckles and fastenings were all gilded as well.

Josh made a quick job with the buckles and clasps. "Get my sword and ready yourself as well," Garlan told his squire. The boy ran away to collect his sword.

He lowered his greathelm down over his head, and Josh fastened it to his gorget. Garlan buckled on his belt, heavy with the weight of longsword and dirk. By then his groom had brought up his mount, a formidable brown courser armored as heavily as he was and draped with a white cloth patterned with roses. Garlan leapt onto the horse with a certain ease. Josh handed him up his shield, a massive slab of heavy oakwood painted green with a pair of golden roses. Garlan swung up the shield in his saddle.

"Get your things and go meet Lord Buckler," Garlan told his squire. "He is to command the reserves." He unsheathed the sword, wheeled his horse about, and trotted off. Better the boy stay in the rear, Garlan thought. Should the battle turn sour for them he would have a greater chance of living in the rear than he had at the front lines. More chance for survival but less chance for glory as every young men aspired to win. No singers sang songs of men guarding the rear or defending the baggage train despite those actions were as important as those actions of a man who fights in the vanguard. A valiant deed unsung is no less valiant.

Behind, his servants hurriedly began to strike his tent. Pale crimson fingers fanned out to the east as the first rays of the sun broke over the horizon. The western sky was a deep purple, speckled with stars.

A warhorn sounded in the far distance, a deep mournful note that chilled the soul. His men all climbed onto their garrons and coursers alike, shouting curses and other stuff. The rising sun was burning off the drifting tendrils of fog as Garlan led them off. What grass the horses had left was heavy with dew, as if some passing god had scattered a bag of diamonds over the earth. The mounted cavalry of Highgarden fell in behind him, for every knight there were ten men at arms.

In the dawn light, the army of Ser Garlan Tyrell unfolded like an iron rose, thorns gleaming.

His fellow lords were already shouting orders to the people around. Lord Edgerran Oakheart the Oakenshield, Lord of Old Oak was there with his youngest son Ser Arys by his side. The Fossoways had already come as well, Ser Tanton, Ser Edwyd and Ser Bryan from the red and Ser Jon from the green. Ser Parmen Crane and the Ambroses, Arthur and Edmund. Lord Warryn Beesbury, Lord of Honeyholt, Ser Hugh Beesbury Ser Leo Blackbar and dozen others.

"Has the men been readied for battle?" he asked them.

"Yes, Ser," Lord Edgerran said, a big and strong man, able and skilled with a sword. His once light brown hair had turned grey. It was well known throughout the Seven Kingdoms that it was Lord Randall Tarly and Lord Edgerran Oakheart who held a last stand against King Eddard Stark's northmen during the Battle of Wolfswood which had brought the precious time for King Rhaegar's army to safely retreat back and saved thousands of lives from being butchered that day. He was called the Oakenshield by the men ever since.

"Good," Garlan told him. "No time to go through the battle plans once again but the plans remain the same as we discussed last night. I will lead the van from the center. Lord Edgerran commands our right and Ser Taton our left."

"Aye, Ser." The lords all said at once.

Garlan thanked the gods that he had called for a war council last night. Elsewise they would have been in deep trouble right now. He had divided his host in three huge parts. Garlan would lead the center with some of the mounted knights and heavy cavalry forming up his vanguard. He had raised his standards in a good solid spot beside the red fork of the Trident. Quivers hanging from their belts, the foot archers arrayed themselves into three long lines, to east of their position in a high vantage point, and stood calmly stringing their bows. The pikemen formed squares in his centre; behind were rank on rank of men-at-arms with spear and sword and axe. Half a thousand heavy horse surrounded Garlan and some of the lords and knights Beesbury, Crane, and Blackbar with all their sworn retainers.

The right wing was all cavalry, some four thousand men, heavy with the weight of their armor. More than three quarters of the knights in his army were there, massed together like a great steel fist. Lord Edgerran Oakheart had the command. Garlan saw his banner unfurl as his standardbearer shook it out; three green oak leaves on gold. Behind him flew Lord Arthur Ambrose's red ants, the bull skull of Bulwer, the bountiful golden horn of House Merryweather, and more.

Beside the river were another mass of cavalry, light horses which were suitable to ride in the soft muddy banks of the river. Ser Tanton Fossoway had the command of it. Around him, the left wing had formed; a huge force, half mounted and half foot, five thousand strong. The reserves stayed behind where they had camped under the command of Lord Bulwer, another five thousand strong to help them should the battle turn sour.

Even from afar, his army would look strong and resplendent, he knew. The knights in all their flashing armors and their horses draped in different colors. There were plenty of banners fluttering about in the wind, the golden Rose of Tyrell most of them.

Garlan could hear the rumble of the foemen's drums now. He remembered the Battle at Tumbler's Falls, the first battle of this war Lord Stark had started. Garlan had won a great victory that day, smashing the Lords Vance and Piper and the host they had brought with them. He remembered how the crows had feasted on the victors and the vanquished alike after the war. He had also won other victories from the riverlords who had come to defend their lands. Of all the battles he had fought this would be the hardest. His scouts had informed him that Lord Hoster had corrected the mistakes of his son by calling back the riverlords Ser Edmure had sent away to defend their lands and people, to mass under the walls of Riverrun. He was only a days march away from meeting them beneath the walls of Riverrun but Lord Hoster had a better mind for war than his son it seems as he took advantage of the night march to fight them unawares.

The rivermen would be exhausted after their long sleepless march. Garlan wondered if Lord Hoster had thought to take them unawares while they slept? Small chance of that. He was no fool to set up camp without watchers and scouts.

The van was massing on the left between the left wing and the center bulk to fend off the enemy cavalry from exploiting the vulnerable position between the left wing and the block of pikemen. He saw the golden rose of House Tyrell flowing from a huge spear and his own his standard of twin roses next to it. Garlan lowered his visor and moved to the front followed by his knights and riders.

Garlan leaned over his horse. "Make it clear to the archers to loose as many shafts as they can before our army engages with theirs," he told the Beesbury knight beside him.

"Yes, Ser," the man replied.

He pointed to the high slopes to the east where the archers were massing. "We have the vantage. Bleed their front lines when they charge, once they come to blows with our own men target the footmen next and then the reserves if they can."

The knight left nodding; his dull grey armor passing through the mists and taking his orders back to the archers. Garlan used his blade to point men into their position. His sword a gleaming silver steel, castle-forged and sharpened to the edge which had served him well. "Ser Tanton," he shouted from his position to Fossoway on the left by the riverbank. "Hold the left lines at all costs."

To turn their flank, the Tullys would need horses that could run on water. The red fork seemed deep and swift to Garlan but he could not be sure. The Riverlords knew their river better than his own reachmen knew them.

Tanton Fossoway led his massed men toward the riverbank. He was pointing the river to his men with his sword. A blanket of pale mist still clung to the surface of the water, the murky green current swirling past underneath. The shallows were muddy and choked with reeds.

Garlan wheeled his own horse to meet his men once more before the battle. "Men of the reach," he called them. "Three moons ago we got a call from our king to come forth and defend his lands against a terrible rebel and outlaw in the North. When the call came it is us who came first in defence of our realm. Words fail me to express the admiration I have for you all and I am proud to be called as the Commander of such brave men. Every man here with me, from lords and knights to the grooms, all offered their own service in these trying times. I thank you for that and I have no other option but to ask you for more. Not everyone of us will go on to be marked in the pages of history or to be sung and praised in the songs, but know that a valiant deed unsung is no less valiant. Now I ask you to do some valiant deeds, not so you could go down in the pages of history or so you could be sung and praised as heros. I ask you to show the valor for your family, for your loved ones, so that they may sleep safe in bed knowing that you are there to protect them and defend their lands. Let the people of the Reach know that their men are there to save them no matter who the foes are. The descendants of Garth Greenhand were the first to come in this land and let it be known that we are the last ones to leave it."

A huge cry was taken up by his entire army and the entire Riverlands was seemed to be filled with it. Swords were being waved in the air and the pikemen thumped their pikes against shields making a bang. "Tyrell!" someone shouted. Others picked up the cry, and the archers on the far right and the Fossoway men on the left as well. His men rattled their swords and spears. "Tyrell! Highgarden! Garlan!"

Garlan turned his courser in a circle to look over the field. The ground was rolling and uneven here; soft and muddy near the river, rising in a gentle slope toward the east. A few trees spotted the eastern line, but most of the land had been cleared and planted. His heart pounded in his chest in time to the drums, and under his layers of leather and steel his brow was cold with sweat. He watched as the vanguard formed into their battle formation behind him.

Lances were being handed to the knights, their steel tips glinting in sunlight. Garlan took his place in the center of the front lines. He drew his sword and stayed there waiting.

The drums were so near that the beat crept under his skin and set his hands to twitching. And suddenly the enemy was there before them, boiling over the tops of the hills, advancing with measured tread behind a wall of shields and pikes. The cavalry line massed to the west by the river.

He looked at them, a great host of twenty five thousand, no less than that. Their captains led them on armored warhorses, standard-bearers riding alongside with their banners. The cavalry was massed to their left. Looking at them Garlan wondered if they were bigger than his own left wing which was made of light horses rather than the heavy ones. The light cavalry was good to maneuver and move in the soft muddy ground of the river but it was no match to the strength of a massed iron fist of heavy cavalry. He glimpsed the Blackwood banners of dead wierwood on a blackshield surrounded by ravens on scarlet field, the dancing maiden of the Pipers, the green weeping willow of House Ryger, Lord Bracken's red stallion, the black bats of Whent and others. The blue and mud red of House Tully was everywhere, the silver trout seeming to leap as the banners swirled and streamed from the high staffs. Where is Lord Hoster? Garlan wondered. He didn't know if he was with the cavalry or the footmen.

A warhorn blew. Haroooooooooooooooooooooooo, it cried, its voice as long and low and chilling as a cold wind from the north. His own trumpets answered, pa-PA pa-PA da-PAAAAAAAAA, brazen and defiant.

As the horns died away, a hissing filled the air; a vast flight of arrows arched up from his right, where the archers stood upon the eastern slopes. The rivermen broke into a run, shouting as they came, but the Tyrell arrows fell on them like hail, hundreds of arrows, thousands, and shouts turned to screams as men stumbled and went down. By then a second flight was in the air, and the archers were fitting a third arrow to their bowstrings.

The trumpets blared again, pa-PAAA pa-PAAA pa-PA pa-PA pa-PAAAAAAA. Garlan waved his sword above his head. "Lances at ready," he shouted. "For Highgarden!" Thousand other voices screamed back at him. He put his spurs to his horse and the van surged forward with him. "Tyrell! Highgarden!" he could hear people shout as they raced forward. The cavalry of the Tullys was not in their sight. He could not see them. He wondered if they were waiting for his cavalry to engage in the war in order to harry the bulk formation of pikemen at the center of his army in its flanks. He had massed his men, left both heavy cavalry and light cavalry on both sides of the phalanx, to protect the formation from any charge at their flanks. He could see that the footmen made the large part of the Tully army. If his van could smash the shield wall in the front lines, his own vanguard could rout them apart in no time leaving the iron fist under Ser Edgerran and the left wing under Ser Tanton to deal with the heavy cavalry of Riverrun. He was leading in the front when they broke a canter, his men following close behind him, lances now lowered at the enemy.

A crescent of enemy spearmen had formed ahead, a double hedgehog bristling with steel, waiting behind tall oaken shields marked with the silver trout of Tully. Garlan was the first to reach them, leading a wedge of his armored veterans. Half the horses shied at the last second, breaking their charge before the row of spears. The others died, sharp steel points ripping through their chests. Garlan saw a dozen men go down. His own courser reared, lashing out with iron-shod hooves as a barbed spearhead raked across his neck. Garlan controlled the beast with one arm, his sword at the other. He directed the horse to the spot where his knights had clashed against the wall and lunged the courser over the enemy ranks. Spears thrust at him from every side. Garlan used his sword to keep them away and cut down a couple of spearmen at the process. He got past the shield wall using the space the corpses he'd made provided. The rivermen stumbled away as he broke through their ranks.

Ser Parmen Crane came bursting through the gap before the shields could close, in his purple cloak and armor. The other knights soon followed behind him. Garlan shouted, "Follow me!" and his knights replied with a battle cry. He cut down a man who was trying to strike his horse down with a spear and knocked another rider down with a smack across his armor covered face. He could see a horse impaled on a Tully spear come crashing down with the knight on top of it. Garlan rode down a couple of footmen and then traded blows with a knight in the livery of House Bracken before slaying him by shoving his sword through the visor. A flight of arrows descended on them; where they came from he could not say, but they fell on Tully and Tyrell alike, rattling off armor or finding flesh. Garlan supposed it might have been Tully arrows as he had given strict orders not to engage once his men had met theirs in fear of slaying their own.

The hedgehog was crumbling, the northerners reeling back under the impact of the mounted assault. Garlan caught a spearman full in the chest as he came on at a run. His sword sheared through mail and leather and muscle and lungs. The man was dead in no time. He swung his sword hardly to knock an axe out of a men at arms' hands and cut him down.

By then another enemy was on him, and Garlan's sword leapt just in time to block the blade to his head. The knight was quick to continue his attacks, slashing at his head and chest and the horse alike. Garlan parried all his blows waiting for the right time and he did not have to wait for long. His sword caught the knight right on his helm and sent his reeling off his horse. A man-at-arms thrust at his chest and his sword lashed out, knocking the spear aside. The man raised his shield over his head. Garlan circled around him, raining blows down on the wood. Chips of oak went flying, until the man lost his feet and slipped, failing flat on his back with his shield on top of him. He was below the reach of Garlan's sword, so he left him there and rode after another man, taking him from behind with a sweeping downcut that sent a jolt of impact up his arm. That won him a moment of respite. Reining up, he looked for the river. Behind he could see the left wing having a hard fighting with the Tully cavalry. The Tullys had used their knowledge to ford the Red fork where it ran shallow to engage with the left wing. He hoped that Ser Tanton could hold them off lest they could be taken in the flanks and the rear. Oakenshield could not hope to leave his position in the right without leaving the west side vulnerable.

A Tyrell rider rode past, slumped against his horse. A spear had entered his belly and come out through his back. He was past any help.

Another man at arms met him sword in hand. He was tall and spare, wearing a long chainmail hauberk and gauntlets of lobstered steel, but he'd lost his helm and blood ran down into his eyes from a gash across his forehead. Garlan aimed a swipe at his face, but the tall man swept it aside. He turned in a circle as Garlan rode around him, hacking at his head and shoulders. Steel rang on steel. The knight grunted, chopping at him savagely. Garlan parried his sword away. He could see that this man was skilled with a sword. He let the swordsman come in close for the kill and knocked him hard against his unprotected head and put him down. "Well fought, Ser," he told quietly.

As he wrenched the blade free, he heard a shout. 'Tully!" a voice rang out. "For Tully and Riverrun!" The knight came thundering down on him, swinging the spiked ball of a morningstar around his head. Their warhorses slammed together. Garlan stopped the spikes with his shield. The spikes punched through the wood so hard that it chipped wood. The morningstar was circling again, catching right across the horse's face. The courser reared and dropped down, dying. Garlan got up from the ground uninjured and missing his shield. The knight who had felled him rode around him, swinging his morningstar around his head for a killing blow. Garlan followed him with his eyes. When the horse came close in front of him he quickly stepped aside, parried the swinging morningstar away and slashed at the beast's front legs as he brought his sword back.

His blade raked against the beast's chest and front legs and brought it down along with its rider. The horse fell away from him, crushing its rider beneath his its mass. The knight's leg was trapped.

"Do you yield?" Garlan asked him, his sword pointed at him.

"Yield," the knight replied. Fumbling at his belt with his good hand, he drew a sword and flung it at Garlan's feet. "I yield, my lord."

Garlan nodded and lifted up the blade. Pain hammered through his elbow when he moved his arm. The battle seemed to have moved beyond him. No one remained on his part of the field save a large number of corpses, both men he killed and his men killed by the Tullys. Ravens were already circling and landing to feed. He saw that the center had reached safely in support of the van; his huge mass of pikemen had pushed the rivermen back against the way they had come. They were struggling on the slopes, pikes thrusting against another wall of shields, these oval and reinforced with iron studs. As he watched, the air filled with arrows again, and the men behind the oak wall crumbled beneath the murderous fire. Lord Edgerran had reached with his mounted riders at the right time as well, sweeping over the surviving footmen and the remaining Tully riders who were fighting his vanguard.

Behind him the struggling at the riverbank was still happening at full force. A good force of riverland knights were still fighting with his vanguard. Only the Tully footmen were being pushed away but the battle was still raging. Garlan did not wait to find a horse but ran straight to where the fighting was still thick between both riders of Tyrell and Tully.

He cut down down the first men who came for him with a swing at his chest. Two more followed the first one as Garlan thrust his sword through the joint between the gorget and his breastplate and cleaved the face of the other. "Tyrell," told a knight in the red and blue armor of House Tully. A silver leaping trout was at the crest of his helmet. Lord Hoster, Garlan thought. The battle had somehow brought them together.

Garlan brought down his sword at Lord Tully's head. The Lord of Riverrun blocked his sword with his own already stained in blood. Garlan thought to overwhelm the Lord Paramount of Riverlands with the speed and strength of youth, raining blows upon blows against Lord Hoster's shield. He was fighting without a shield now and so leapt back quickly and gracefully to defence whenever Lord Tully's blade jumped up close to him. Garlan kept almost all his slashes at bay and landed quick hits to Lord Hoster's shoulder, arms and waist. The armor kept his sword at bay. He moved for the joints after that, pushing Tully back with a flurry of attacks and driving his sword right through the armpit. The sword missed thrusting right through the man but it drew blood and forced Lord Tully to lower his guard. Before he could deal with a killing blow though, two of Riverrun's guardsmen came to the defense of their lord, blocking Garlan's path to their Lord. Garlan cut down one and then the other and before he could reach Lord Tully again a knight with the weeping willow surcoat stopped him. Garlan tried his best to get past him, pressing on his attack but the knight blocked them all and held him off.

Around them Lord Edgerran Oakheart's iron fist had overwhelmed the Tully riders and sending them off from the field. When the Ryger knight saw his liege Lord was safe and away he took the reigns of the fleeing horse and left along with his fellow rivermen leaving off their duel with a murderous glare.

Oakenshield thundered across the field, the gold cloak of his streaming from his shoulders. Five hundred knights surrounded him, sunlight flashing off the points of their swords. The remnants of the Tully lines shattered like glass beneath the hammer of their charge.

"Get me a horse," Garlan shouted and some man at arms with the green cloak of the Tyrells brought him one. He ought to chase them and capture them before they could get back inside Riverrun. Before he could start the chase though, another warhorn sounded from the South. Ser Tanton, he knew at once, fighting by the river behind them. He risked letting his men die by giving the chase to the Tullys. If he went back to protect his men, the rivermen would be back safe behind their walls. The gods only knew how long it would be before he could starve them out with a siege. He looked at the fleeing men and then back at his own fighting to save their lives. Cursing, Garlan turned his horse around.

"Back to the river," he shouted and rallied his men around.

When they rode hard and joined the fight with Tanton Fossoway and the reserves under Lord Bulwer, the remaining of the Tully cavalry broke and ran. As the Tullys broke away and ran from the field a great cry split the air and Garlan Tyrell knew that the day was theirs.


End file.
